


The Start Of Something

by Safiyabat



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Demon Dean Winchester, Depression, M/M, Mark of Cain, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-03
Updated: 2014-10-03
Packaged: 2018-02-19 17:49:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2397326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Safiyabat/pseuds/Safiyabat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Dean's soul doesn't ascend to Heaven, Castiel realizes that the Mark had more of an effect on Dean than he'd hoped. He seeks out Sam, only to find him less than open to angelic assistance. Together they must work to find Dean and save his humanity. In doing so, Castiel finds that he's been overlooking something that's been right under (okay, over) his nose the whole time. Even realizing his affections for Sam, however, might not be enough to bring the pair together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Figure It Out

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, my beta reader embodied grace, patience and talent. Thank you to stolen_voices!
> 
> Also, my artist (known on LJ as evian_fork) was fabulous to work with. I'm hoping that I can make the art go on AO3, but if I can't definitely look for the art masterpost on the LJ post because this person is fantastic. I can't say enough good things. 
> 
> Warnings for suicidal ideation, graphic violence somewhat beyond show level, and a Dean who is either a demon (and therefore neither warm nor fuzzy) or recovering from having his twisted demonic spirit straightened back into a human soul again.

It didn’t take long for Castiel to find his stolen Grace – his own Grace, the grace that had been stolen from him. It had been in the typewriter all along, the same device in which he’d concealed the angel tablet. In fact, Castiel’s Grace had been the very thing to power the arcane device. For all of his scheming, for all of his plotting and all of what he thought were such clever little plot twists, the evil angel turned out to be very predictable, indeed. Even though Cas had never really assimilated most of the books, movies and dreadful sitcoms forcibly implanted into his brain, even he could unravel the former Scribe of God’s plans fairly easily. Freshly re-charged, he threw himself into rebuilding Heaven. It was the only role in which he could see himself, the only way he could assuage his grief. There was no Dean to fight for, not anymore. Dean was dead, slain by Metatron and not even in a Pyrrhic victory. His blood, the blood Castiel had reconstituted himself from ash and smoke and memory, had dripped from Metatron’s blade. Cas had seen it with his own eyes and sensed it with his own Grace. 

The prospect of resurrecting Dean did occur to him. It wasn’t exactly as though the process was unknown to him, and perhaps he’d be allowed to work on some of that liver damage and maybe the heart disease that had been laying its insidious little foundations for half a decade now. The Mark of Cain stopped him. Dean had damned himself when he’d put that thing on his arm. He could not allow that little sliver of Lucifer to get a better grip on Dean’s beautiful soul. It had already taken too much of a hold, if what he’d heard from the other angels was anything to go by. He could not be brought back without that brand, and the brand would continue to twist and burn away what had once been pure and righteous enough to be seen across Hell itself. So he allowed his friend to stay at rest. He’d earned it, after all. 

The other angels quickly fell into line behind him. He considered objecting. He was no leader. They had abandoned him once and they would surely do so again. Still, they needed someone to follow. He’d said once that giving free will to angels was like teaching poetry to fish. These angels were not so bad as that, but they still needed guidance and they’d looked to him once again to find it. It gave him something to do, something to focus on instead of his grief. It allowed him to turn his attention to rebuilding and creation, instead of destruction. So he did the job that was in front of him and if the other angels wanted to follow him he allowed it. If they, in their free will, found someone better to follow then he would allow that too. As they rebuilt, he mourned. He had cared for no single creature as he had cared for Dean, and now he was gone. 

Repairing the veil was the first issue. It wouldn’t do to condemn Dean to eternity as a ghost, and once Dean made it to Heaven, at least Castiel could visit him there. It wasn’t the same as being with him on Earth, when he was alive and when the angel could see the results of his handiwork shining in front of him. At least it would be something. At least he would be able to interact with Dean’s soul, unsullied by the Mark or by Purgatory. He had to admit that the prospect had its appeal. Neither experience had brought out the better parts of Dean’s personality.

When the veil was fixed and Heaven-bound souls were able to ascend to their rightful places, he found his way to the Winchesters’ private paradise. Much to his surprise, he found it empty, shuttered. The happy kitchen with the memory of young Dean consoling his mother was dim and dark. The field in which Dean shot off fireworks with his teenage brother lacked brothers, color or flame. Even the hastily thrown together constructs that had formed Sam’s side of the shared Winchester heaven were cobwebbed and vacant, burned out. He frowned. This should not be. Sam’s Heaven he could understand, more or less; he’d plunged into the Cage after all, but Dean’s place was guaranteed and he was dead. He should be there, happy and at peace. 

Unless, of course, the Mark had taken too strong a hold to be broken in death. He sought out Hannah. She had fallen into her old place as his second in command, as though she hadn’t led his army right away from him when he’d refused to “punish” Dean. Perhaps that was the mark of a good second, to take charge when the leader was compromised. He’d been a second-in-command once, taking over for Anna when she’d Fallen. “I need to see the prayer logs,” he commanded.

She frowned. “Of course, Commander.” They appeared before her, a ledger that updated as human pleas poured in. “Is there anything in particular that you’re looking for?”

“I can find it for myself, thank you. Hannah, I need you to look for a record of any angelic ritual that Sam Winchester might have enacted to resurrect another human.” He began flipping through the ledger. 

She turned to go. “Of course, sir. But…”

“Yes, Hannah?”

“I can’t think that anyone would have failed to inform you.” One corner of her mouth quirked up. How quickly some of these angels had absorbed human mannerisms! Perhaps Naomi had been right after all. Maybe he had come off the line wrong, as they said. Maybe there was a crack in his chassis, that it had taken him so long to come off as anything other than a robot. He still got it wrong more often than not. “I don’t think that anyone is unaware of your attachment to Dean Winchester. If anyone had resurrected him or even sought assistance to do so, I’m sure you would have been informed immediately. I suspect you would have wanted to be involved with the project.”

Cas blinked. “So Sam has not made an attempt to resurrect his brother?”

“None that has reached Heaven,” she confirmed with a nod of her head. “Logs will show a lack of prayer from the Abomination for several years.”

To describe those statements as surprising would be to undersell them. After Dean had made his feelings about Sam’s lack of action following his last “death” after the events at Roman Enterprises clear, he’d have thought that Sam would have left no stone unturned to get his brother back. And Sam had been the most faithful of all the Winchesters, even Mary. “Things were tense between the brothers,” he mused aloud. “He was angry at Dean for some time.” 

“His experiences with Heaven haven’t exactly been positive, Castiel,” Flagstaff pointed out. “Perhaps he’d rather seek assistance from those more inclined to give it.” Cas hadn’t even heard the healer enter the room but here she stood right behind Hannah. 

“A demon deal,” he surmised grimly. “But what could he possibly offer Crowley?” Sam had never successfully made a deal with a demon before. What could he possibly bring to the table now?

“I can find no evidence that Dean Winchester was resurrected at all,” Hannah pointed out. “His soul never entered Heaven, and no matter what his crimes in life, as the Righteous Man, he was assured a place here.” Flagstaff winced. “Sorry – it was decided long ago.” 

“That was before the Mark,” Castiel reminded them both. “What if the Mark changed him somehow? What if he is no longer… what if he is no longer human?”

“Perhaps the younger Winchester would be the person to ask?” Flagstaff urged. 

“I can’t find him,” Castiel admitted, straightening up. “He was warded to hide him from angels during the Apocalypse and he carries an expertly made hex bag at all times to boot. If he does not wish to be found, he will not be found.” He sighed. “I wish no further dealings with Crowley. They feel… unclean.” 

“You do know where Sam lives, correct?” the healer prodded. 

“Well, yes.”

“And you have his cell phone number should he not be home?”

“Um, of course.”

She folded her arms across her chest. “Perhaps you might consider a less celestial method of communication?” 

Castiel felt his vessel’s cheeks warm up. “I – thank you, Flagstaff. Your suggestion is welcome.” 

The women exchanged glances. He suspected that he’d said something funny without intending to, but this happened sometimes. To cover his confusion and suspicion he descended to Earth and sought out the bunker. 

Every time he’d been to the Men of Letters’ bunker, he’d found it to be a welcoming place. Even when Dean had been angry with him, Sam had been solicitous of his health and comfort. When they’d brought him home after April had murdered him, he’d found the place cheerful and homey, with both brothers eager to give him every possible amenity and solace after his recent death and experience with homelessness. Dean had then ejected him, which he now understood to be Gadreel’s doing, but the place itself had still felt welcoming. 

It did not feel welcoming now. In fact, the door gave him a sharp shock when he touched it, knocking him back several feet and onto his rear. He stood up and dusted himself off, adjusting his vision to truly see the door. Additions had been made to the warding, painted in Sam’s cramped, compulsively neat Enochian script. No angel was getting into this place, he realized as he read the wards. No angel, and no demon. No fae, either. No ghost, no revenant, no creature of the spirit… Sam’s tiny handwriting had been absolutely necessary to accommodate all of the new warding. 

Castiel frowned. He took his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed Sam’s number from the contacts. He’d rarely ever called it. He’d almost never needed to call Sam. After all, when had he ever needed to speak to Sam without Dean? When had Sam ever been useful to him, to Heaven, without Dean? “Hi, Cas.” 

“Sam. I cannot enter the bunker.” Sam’s voice had never sounded so empty, so dead. He’d heard Sam in the throes of withdrawal. He’d heard Sam when he was about to die, and the fact that he could compare Sam’s near-death voice from multiple experiences was probably not something that he should bring up right now. He’d heard Sam when Sam’s soul had been lost, and he’d heard Sam when Sam’s soul had been forced back into his body. He’d never heard Sam sound like this. 

“Nope.” 

“I need to speak with you. Please alter the wards so I may enter.” 

“I’m not there.” 

Cas waited to see if more information would follow. “Where are you? I need to speak with you.” 

There was a deep sigh from the other end of the line. “Look, Cas. I’m sorry, I get that you’ve probably got a lot going on. Rebuilding Heaven’s going to suck. I get that, and I’m sure you’re going to have a lot of Metatron loyalists to hunt down. I’ve just, uh, I’ve got some pretty heavy stuff of my own going on right now and I don’t think I’m going to be real helpful to you. I’m sorry, I am, but I just can’t be what you need.” 

“Sam, wait,” he barked before Dean’s brother could terminate the call. “I’m… suspicious, I suppose… about what it is that you’ve got going on. That’s why I’m here. Please. Let me talk to you. Just tell me where you are.” 

Sam’s sigh had a different tone to it this time, less mournful and more exasperated. “You won’t be able to get in here either, Cas. Meet me at… um, Audrey’s Diner just outside of Laurel, Montana. Give me about an hour.” 

The phone beeped at him twice, indicating that Sam had, in fact, hung up on him. Cas glared at the instrument. He was a celestial being, the leader of Heaven. He was not accustomed to being hung up on. Still, he supposed that he could make allowances for grief. 

When the hour had run its course, he flew to the appointed place – a remarkably bright and sparkling place, considering the usual dives frequented by the Winchesters. A few customers spread out on the red-upholstered booths, none too close to each other. He looked around and finally spotted Sam sitting at a booth in the back. 

He approached. Sam probably hadn’t shaved since the last time Castiel had seen him. His hair might have been washed, but he didn’t think the human had paid much more attention to it than that. His eyes burned bright, opals shining out from circles so dark they might as well be bruises. His trademark layers hung on him, unkempt and unbuttoned. His hand shook as he brought his coffee to his mouth, and he gave no indication that he noticed that it was far too hot for human consumption. “Sam?” he greeted, somewhat hesitant to approach.

His eyes flicked up to Castiel’s. “Hi, Cas.” He indicated the seat across from him. “How’s Heaven?”

“Coming along nicely. We’ve fixed the problem with the Veil, so the dead can go to where they need to be.” He glanced at the menus. “Sam, when was the last time that you ate?”

A waitress appeared from somewhere – Cas couldn’t quite tell where. Her hair was short and auburn. “He hasn’t been in here in over a week,” she pointed out. “And he didn’t even eat half a salad then.” 

“You need to eat, Sam. It is a basic human requirement.” Sam directed a vicious glare at him before smiling politely at the waitress. Her name tag proclaimed her to be Rose. “Just a salad, please.” 

Cas frowned. “Sam will have a grilled chicken sandwich,” he objected. “He requires actual sustenance.” 

“Damn straight,” Rose nodded. “And for you, sugar?” 

Cas didn’t need food, and most kinds of food had lost their appeal since he’d regained Grace. Still, he needed to appear “normal,” whatever that meant. “I’ll have a burger, medium rare. Extra fries, please. Whatever I don’t eat I’ll see that Sam eats.” That did not seem to go over as well with Sam as he’d hoped; he thought the man looked somewhat green at the joke, but Rose just nodded and walked away with more of a spring in her step. 

“Did you seriously come all this way to hassle me about my eating habits, Cas?” Sam growled. 

“No. I did not. To be honest your eating habits have never been of concern to me until today.” He frowned. Perhaps someone should be hassling Sam about his eating habits, come to think of it. “They were sometimes of concern to your brother, I know.” He grabbed at the cup of coffee that appeared before him thanks to Rose’s stealthy action. “He used to worry about your diet regularly, in fact. He was often concerned that you were not eating enough, and I see that his concerns were well founded. We have not seen one another for a month and you have lost quite a bit of weight.” 

“So?” He glowered. “Dean’s not going to be worrying about my eating habits anymore.” 

“Dean is dead, Sam.” He tried to speak gently, but there was only so much that could be expected of him when he clearly needed to get through to someone in denial.

“Dean is worse than dead, Cas,” Sam sneered back. “Dean is a demon. Only it’s worse that that. Thanks to that mark on his arm, he’s a super-demon. He’s worse than Abaddon, in terms of power. The knife won’t kill him. The best I can do is trap and exorcise him, leaving his corpse behind so he can go possess some poor s-“ He cut himself off. 

“No.” If Cas had a stomach, he’d have felt a pit in it. As it was, he couldn’t help but feel a roiling in his Grace, a horror that made the skittering of the Leviathans within his form seem like a pleasant tickle. 

“Suit yourself.”

“That’s why you ran away?” 

He gave a low chuckle. It occurred to the angel that he’d never heard Sam laugh, not really. Dean had described it once or twice, but he’d never heard it for himself. All he’d been privy to had been little half-laughs like this, the mirthless chuckle or the sarcastic snort or a self-deprecating little “heh” here and there. Once upon a time, the man had laughed, Dean swore it up and down, but it occurred to Cas that even Dean had referred to it as something long since lost. “Ran away. Sure. Okay.”

“You are not in your home, at the bunker where you belong,” he pointed out.

“That was Dean’s home.” He looked up at Rose. “Thanks, ma’am.”

“Don’t you ‘ma’am’ me. Just eat something, would ya?” She grinned. Cas noticed that Sam’s plate overflowed with food. So did his own, particularly with fries. 

Sam grimaced, but he picked up his sandwich and took a bite. “The place was Dean’s home, Cas. Not mine. I sealed it up and left once I knew what happened.”

“And where are you living now?” he prodded. 

“There’s an old Campbell bolt hole not too far from here.” He shrugged. “Dean never saw it, so there’s no reason he’d know about it now. I don’t think Samuel ever took Crowley there.” 

“And… what are you doing about Dean?” 

“Right now? Research. Lots of research.” He put the sandwich down. “I know how to cure a demon. I don’t know if it will work on a demon of Dean’s caliber. I don’t even know if I have anything that will hold something like him, and I’m pretty sure that I’ve got exactly one shot at this. I need to make sure that I get it right.”

“You have not sought angelic assistance.” He bit into his burger. 

Sam pulled his head back. “Why the Hell would I do that? What has ‘angelic assistance’ ever gotten us?” He didn’t sound angry, just genuinely confused. 

Cas stopped chewing for a moment. “Well, it got you both out of Hell.” 

“You pulled Dean out of Hell for Heaven’s purposes, not to help Dean. Same with me, and you’re forgetting that you brought me back a little, uh… screwy. And didn’t notice. And basically enslaved me to Crowley like that.” He snorted. “Oh, and that I never asked to be taken out of Hell in the first place.” He pushed his food away. 

“What?” The statement made so little sense that Cas couldn’t process it. He must have misheard. 

“I jumped, Cas. I chose to be in Hell. I made that choice. I did not want to come back. Me coming back didn’t benefit… well, anyone but you and Crowley. Dean lost out on everything he gained, once he figured out that I was alive. I haven’t gained a damn thing by coming back – hell, some days I’m not even sure I’m out. ‘Angelic assistance’ turned me into bigger liability to Bobby and Dean than I already was. ‘Angelic assistance’ didn’t keep Kevin from getting nabbed by Leviathan. ‘Angelic assistance’ got Meg knifed in an alley. ‘Angelic assistance’ got Dean dragged off and left me alone to defend Crowley from Abaddon while my body burned itself alive from the inside out. ‘Angelic assistance’ got me possessed by an evil angel –“

“Gadreel was not evil!” Cas seethed, slamming a hand down on the table. “He kept you alive and he sacrificed himself to save Heaven.” The few patrons in the place glanced at the pair as silverware clanked against the table.

“He forced himself on me against my will, using Dean’s face to guilt me into agreeing to something completely different,” Sam spat back, completely uncowed. “He murdered Kevin. That doesn’t matter to you, though, does it? At the end of the day, you’re an angel and we’re just humans to you. We’re just tools, to be used and thrown away whenever you don’t need us anymore.”

“Sam, you know I’m not like that,” he objected. He had pulled this man from the deepest pits of the Cage, had taken the time to heal him from the torture inflicted on him to eject Gadreel, and this was the gratitude he got?

“No? When I pointed out that you were trying to use my brother as your own personal little tac-nuke, you wouldn’t even listen. Even Dean was only valuable to you as a means of freeing Heaven from Metatron. Even Gadreel – Goddamn Gadreel, who wouldn’t know consent if it bit him on the ass – at least pretended to care. But you just ignored me because I’m the Abomination. Not even fully human, safe to ignore. What happened to Dean, what happened to my brother, was of absolutely no importance to you as long as your precious heaven was fixed. And now he’s worse than dead. The worst demon the world has ever seen has been unleashed upon the world and you’re worried about freaking gratitude.” He stood up and dropped some bills on the counter. “Thanks. But I’ll pass on more ‘assistance.’” He walked away. 

Castiel gaped for a moment. Sam had never lashed out at him before, not like this. Even when soulless, he’d never verbally abused Cas like this, tried to lay blame for anything at Cas’ door like this. No human had. He didn’t need to take it from him. He was a creature of pure celestial intent. He could smite the man down with a mere thought. He could remind him, with a touch, of what Hell had been like for him. He did not need Sam Winchester’s judgment, thank you very much.

It was that thought that brought him up short. Sam was wrong, of course. He had never thought of humans as mere tools. The boy was just insecure, and grieving. But… perhaps Flagstaff was right that Sam had not always met with the kindest of treatment from angels. How many of his deaths had been at the hands of angels? That was discounting the Cage, of course. He followed Sam to the parking lot, where he saw him getting onto a vintage motorcycle and driving away.

Well, that wasn’t too difficult. The angel opted to not be seen as he flew over the hunter, following him as he returned to this lair of his. The ride took about forty minutes, following some fairly twisted back roads into the mountains. Dean would not want his brother riding a motorcycle in the mountains in bad weather, he thought distantly. He wouldn’t want him doing so in the winter, when he might hit a patch of black ice and wreck, and he wouldn’t want him doing so in the rain when he might encounter slick roads or get wet and catch cold. Perhaps he might not want Sam riding a motorcycle at all. He resolved to speak with the man about this sometime soon. 

The place Sam had set up for himself turned out to be another bunker, although this didn’t seem to have quite the same comfort level as the one he’d left behind. Not that it was easy to tell, of course – he had the place warded so tightly that Cas couldn’t get within fifty feet of it. Nevertheless, there were no gas or electric lines going to the airlock-style door that was barely discernable on the ground. No running water had made its way here either. 

Cas made himself visible on the very edge of the circle of wards. Sam seemed unsurprised. “The wards send a message, Cas.” 

“Sam. You are grieving.” 

“Astute observation, Sherlock.” He sighed. “Look. I’m sorry. I’m being a bit of a dick. You are what you are and you can’t help that. I shouldn’t… hold it against you, I guess. But I really don’t have the space to deal with Heaven stuff right now. All I care about is curing Dean. After that, I’m sure he’ll be right on board with whatever it is that you need. Okay?” He snorted. “He usually is.” 

“Are you jealous, Sam?” Cas wanted to know. He tilted his head to the side. “Are you jealous of my relationship with Dean?”

“No, Cas. I’m not. It’s good that Dean has friends. Seriously, I’ve encouraged him to be friends with you. I don’t like the fact that he’s so eager to jump to Heaven’s tune without thinking about it. But I’m not jealous. Are we done here? I’ve got work to do.”

“You aren’t well, Sam. You need to sleep.”

“I can sleep when I’m dead. If anyone ever freaking lets me stay that way,” he muttered, looking away. 

“Sam, I want to help you with Dean. I do. Let me be a part of this,” he insisted. He chose to ignore the last part of Sam’s sentence. He didn’t want to encourage those thoughts by giving them a voice.

Sam’s lip curled. “Why?” He rearranged his face, changing it from bitterness and contempt to curiosity with visible effort. “I’m sorry. I mean, why would you even want to? You don’t see this as any part of your responsibility. And you’ve got plenty on your plate dealing with Heaven.”

“Because you cannot do this on your own, Sam.” 

He turned away. “I don’t need your pity, Cas.”

“It’s not pity, Sam. Angels are supposed to be guardians of humanity. Dean, in his current state, is a severe threat to your species. I cannot allow him to remain as he is. And out of respect for our friendship, for everything that he has taught me over the years, I want to see him restored to his humanity.” He sighed. “It is not obligatory to do everything yourself, Sam.” 

The hunter paused. He stared at Cas for a long moment, and the angel found himself remembering that Sam was not simply the man who had broken the world. This was the man who had managed to derail plans millennia in the making. This was the man whose will had restrained a creature so powerful God Himself had been forced to create a special section of Hell to house him. 

This was the man, the human man, who had fought two angels with nothing but his own mind and will. And won, both times. 

“Fine,” he decided at last. “But no funny business. Got it?”

“I fail to see what comedy has to do with anything. But I suggest that we start tomorrow and that you get some food and real sleep. You are human. You will be going up against a super-demon. I will send Flagstaff down to see to your needs, if you will be willing to alter the wards to allow angels entry.”

“No. But I’ll see you in the morning.”

Cas sent Flagstaff down anyway. “Sam Winchester requires assistance,” he informed her after explaining the Dean situation to both her and Hannah. “I believe the lack of sleep is making him irrational and he is declining food. I need someone to go and speak to him. You worked at a hospital, you helped trauma patients. Perhaps you can help him in ways that I cannot?”

She raised a dark eyebrow. “Are you asking me to offer counseling services to Sam Winchester?”

“I suppose that I am.” He frowned. “I would not have thought of it in quite that way. But I suppose that he might find them useful, which will render him more productive.” It was entirely about productivity. It had nothing to do with wanting to ease the contempt or resentment he’d seen in the man, aimed at Castiel himself. Nothing at all.

While his sister was gone, he set subordinates to work. Most of them needed to focus on Heaven, of course, but plenty could be spared to look for Dean. Still others could be persuaded to look for a way to cure him of the Mark, to cleanse him of the taint upon his soul and his spirit. 

Cas himself focused on a way to contain his former comrade. Abaddon, as he understood it, had only been contained by slicing her up into pieces and burying the pieces separately after she’d been shot in the head with a devil’s trap-etched bullet. Even if Sam could do such a thing to his brother’s body, Cas suspected that he himself did not want to see his handiwork undone again. Such a thing would also make it difficult to bring the man back to life as a human, which was, of course, the ultimate goal. 

Flagstaff returned after three hours. “Did he allow you into his home?” Castiel demanded. “Did he eat food?”

“I was able to persuade him to eat some soup,” she acknowledged. “Not much. He wasn’t willing to let me into the place he was staying. He doesn’t refer to it as a home, Castiel. May I speak with you privately?” He nodded, and the other angels in the room departed. “What are your feelings toward Sam Winchester, Commander?”

He sighed. “He has made many mistakes, Flagstaff. You know this. He freed Lucifer from his Cage.”

“In which he was encouraged by you,” she pointed out sharply. “I was watching. I remember. He was never given enough information, enough factual information, to make the right choice. And when he had all of the information he sacrificed himself to atone for his error, to save the world. Against the will of Heaven, I would add, knowing he’d be unmourned by anyone save that brother of his.” She crossed her arms over her chest and he wondered how long she’d been on Earth, watching. “I believe that you only see his error when you look at him. In this, you are exactly the same as the brother.” Her face twisted, but she recovered herself. 

“His sins were great. Are great,” he corrected himself. “He is simply all we have to work with.”

“If that’s truly your feeling then we will fail.” She shrugged elegantly. “I think he has come to believe what people tell him about himself. Perhaps that doesn’t matter to you. But it matters to me. I will take him as my charge.” 

“I don’t believe that he wants to be any angel’s charge. He’s not very fond of our species, apparently.”

“Perhaps if he had positive encounters with us he would think better of us. Did you really try to kill him by sending his brain into a spiral of flashbacks?” 

He looked away. “I did what I had to do.” He’d warned Dean repeatedly to desist, but he had not. He’d never worried about the effect of his decision on Sam, he’d never cared. He’d absorbed the hallucinations, but he’d acknowledged even then that he could not completely repair the damage. Castiel shifted uncomfortably. Perhaps humans were not so easily fixed as that, in the end. 

“Indeed.” She smiled thinly. 

The next day, Castiel descended to Earth and telephoned Sam from outside his new bunker. Sam did not answer his phone. He did, however, come running up the road behind the angel. His body was drenched in sweat, and he wore only a tee shirt and baggy shorts. The garments clung to his body, emphasizing that while he’d lost weight, he retained a great deal of muscle tone. He frowned. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s impolite to stare?”

“No,” Cas replied absently. “Why are you running? Is someone chasing you?” 

“Not at the moment.” He stretched himself carefully. It made perfect sense that Sam had been the vessel for Lucifer. Lucifer had been the most beautiful of God’s angels, back before he’d been cast out. Even angels had difficulty looking on his true form, not because of his Grace, but simply because they could become lost in the sight. Sam encapsulated that, even drenched in sweat and stretching. Perhaps especially drenched in sweat and stretching, Cas thought idly. The idea surprised him. “Running is important for conditioning. I’m going into a major fight with a seriously powerful demon, Cas. Letting my body get weak isn’t in my best interests.” 

“And yet you refuse food and sleep.” 

“I slept four hours last night. Which, I want you to know, is pretty much a record when I’m not drugged.” He stretched again. “Dude. The staring. You’re making me kind of uncomfortable.” 

“Your form is pleasing to the eye, Sam. It is only natural that a person would want to look at it.”

“Getting creepy now.”

“Sorry.” He looked away. “We have been searching for Dean all night, but I’m afraid we’ve had no success. The warding on his rib cage still seems to be effective, as does yours.” 

“He also has a hex bag that hides him from – well, just about everything,” Sam informed him. He took a seat on a large boulder. 

“I remember that. You both carry them. Where did they come from?” Cas couldn’t remember when he’d given Dean such a thing.

“Me.”

“You?” 

“Yeah. Back, uh, back before you put the sigils on our ribs, after I let Lucifer out. I made them. Why, you want one?” 

“Uh, no, thank you, Sam. I was not aware that you were involved with witchcraft.” He frowned. 

Sam rolled his eyes. “I had sex with a demon on a regular basis and drank her blood. You really think I was going to draw the line at putting some dirt into a bag? She taught me a lot. Anyway. Dean’s in Nevada.” 

“You know this?” He turned to look at Sam. “How? Witchcraft again?”

“Tempting. But no. He called me last night. Woke me up, in fact. But he called me up to remind me that right about now is when we would have been making our annual trip to Vegas. I could hear the, uh, the sounds of a show in the background.” His face fell from its façade of calm for just a moment. Cas could have sworn Sam was blinking back tears. 

“Did he ask you to join him?” he offered, putting a hand on Sam’s shoulder.

“What? No. No, that’s not why Dean called. Calls, I should say. He’s been having loads of fun calling me. This whole time. This time he called to point out that now was the time we took our annual pilgrimage to Vegas, but that he’d never wanted to bring me there in the first place and that he was so fucking glad he didn’t have to do that anymore. What a dead weight I’d been, dragging him down. Like an anchor in the fucking desert, is what he said.” He gave a soft little “heh,” like one of the ones that the real Dean had always hated. Or at least that he’d hated when he spoke to Castiel in private. “How he’d only dragged me along because he couldn’t trust me out on my own.” 

“Sam, that’s not Dean,” he tried. He could feel so much underneath Sam’s skin – his blood, his muscle, his soul fluttering inside like a trapped bird.

“Actually, it is, Cas. It’s Dean. It’s a demon, who is Dean, but it’s him. It’s pure, one hundred percent Dean. My brother. The demon. He’s not constrained anymore. And he’s right. He never trusted me, and I always wondered why he dragged me along. I hated going. I hate Vegas. Hated it more after the Cage, you know? Too crowded, too much noise, too many people wanting to touch you.” He shuddered. “Anyway, now I have my answer. After Purgatory, Dean didn’t even try. He, uh, wasn’t so keen on doing anything ‘fun’ with me. You know. Um. Had to learn my lesson.” He exhaled, long and hard, and looked down for a moment. “But whatever. Because someone’s going to save him. Me. You. Someone. And this whole, long nightmare will be over.” 

Cas stood up, not sure what to make of the non sequitur. “Um, all right. So if you know where he is, why don’t you go to him?” Sam’s words had a certain fatalism about them, which would have been fine five years ago, but disturbed Cas on a level he couldn’t entirely understand now.

“And do what? I need to have a plan in place before I can go charging in and just… have at it. Otherwise, he’s just going to rip me to shreds. Which is fine, I mean it’s not like I’m doing anything else, but that demon needs to be taken down and I’m the only one who cares about making him human again.” He glanced at the hatch to his bunker. “Have you guys found any way of restraining him?” 

“Your bunker has an excellent dungeon if I remember correctly,” he pointed out, sitting on the ground near Sam’s rock. 

The human started chewing on his nails. “Yeah, no. Dean knows every inch of that dungeon, remember? He found a way to summon Crowley to break him out of it the last time we locked him in there and that’s without the demonic superpowers. We need more.”

“You have the demonic shackles.” 

“Crowley’s already familiar with them. So is Dean. We have to assume that what one knows, the other one knows. Let’s find some way of enhancing those. Back in the day you had Alastair trussed up to something pretty impressive.” 

“And it failed, Sam,” Cas pointed out. “Spectacularly.” 

“Because you had a traitor in your midst. Don’t think I’ve forgotten that.” He glared and Cas felt something unpleasant stir within his Grace. After a fraction of a second he identified it as guilt. “But… I think it’s something to work from. If we can work the demonic shackles into it, and a better devil’s trap – better than the one that’s already on the ground in the Men of Letters’ bunker, better than the one that you used on Alastair, better than basically anything we’ve ever seen.” He looked away. “I mean, you guys have to have something, right? I’ll keep looking too, of course. I haven’t stopped.” 

Cas stood and shook his head. “With what materials, Sam? You came out here on a motorcycle.” 

Sam snorted. “You really didn’t pay much attention when you were at the Men of Letters’ bunker, did you? I can get back there when I need to. If they could do it, I can do it. Anyway, let’s just… if we can come up with a way to contain him while we’re curing him we can move on to the next step.”

“I have angels working on that,” Cas pointed out dismissively. “Even the Rit Zien.” 

“Swell. If we can manage to cure Dean without him turning into a puddle of pink goo that would be ideal.” He gave a big grin without showing teeth, basically turning his mouth into a giant U shape. “I found a couple of rituals that show some promise, but I don’t know that they’ll work. And of course if they, don’t we’re screwed. We can’t risk having Dean loose in the bunker if we fail.”

“We need a test subject,” Castiel observed. They contemplated their options in silence for a moment.

“Cain,” they said together, with matching grins. 

Cas returned to Heaven with a new plan. He set himself to looking for devil’s traps, sigils that would restrain even the fiercest of demons. Phanuel found himself assigned to designing shackles, which he decided came “close enough” to his sphere of repentance and hope. Arariel was dispatched to research cleansing rituals, which he supposed suited his typically assigned duties of watching over waters. 

Castiel himself worked to ensure the smooth running of Heaven. He visited Sam on a daily basis, and he found himself surprised by how easily he fell into working with the younger Winchester. Sam was enjoyable. He spoke with Flagstaff about this after about a week of work. “Always before, my contact was with Dean,” he admitted. “But Sam seemed to be okay with this. I often believed I was respecting Sam’s wishes as much as my own.”

“To some extent you probably were,” she told him. “He has no reason to love angels, and he’s had enough people telling him that he wasn’t good enough and reminding him of his shortcomings.” 

“Is that what he tells you?” he asked her. 

“He doesn’t have to. I see it every time that he speaks. He still sees himself as a tool in your eyes. Our eyes,” she corrected. “It wouldn’t kill you to be friendlier with him.”

“I told him that he had a pleasing form and that people would want to look at it. He told me I was creepy.”

She folded her lips together and looked at him out of the side of her eye. “Maybe because saying that sort of thing out of the blue is fairly creepy, Castiel.”

“But his form is pleasing. He is intelligent, he must know this to be so.” 

“Considering his history, I believe he’s uncomfortable with the scrutiny. Castiel, you saw him in the Cage and you touched his mind twice to directly address the trauma he experienced. Can you perhaps begin to understand why it’s not okay for you to just view him as a body and a tool?”

“But I don’t!” he exploded. “He has a beautiful form, but he also has a beautiful spirit!”

“Then try to get to know him as a separate entity from Dean,” she advised. “Decide how you feel about him. He’s very certain that you see him as an extension of his brother, at best.” 

Castiel wanted to argue, but he found that he could not. He had not wanted to make Sam feel as though he was not a welcome contributor in his own right, but his frequent insistence that he call on Dean so soon after Dean’s abandonment had probably done exactly that. “I need to find a way to let him know…” he mused. 

When Castiel descended to Earth the next day, Sam handed him a piece of paper. “It’s the password to a secure account,” he explained. “All of my research will be updated every night and stored there. If anything happens to me – that’s where you can find my work.” 

Cas narrowed his eyes. Sam had a goal now. He’d expressed certain tendencies before but he wouldn’t try anything now, right? “Is there something you’d like to tell me, Sam? Because we’ve talked about this. All life is sacred –”

“I’ve found Cain,” Sam interrupted. “Ready to try out those shackles?” He raised his eyebrows and grinned, even showing dimples. A true grin, then.

The angel’s mouth hung open. “You found Cain.”

“The Mark of Cain comes from Lucifer, right?” When Cas nodded, he shrugged. “Remember what we found after…” He looked away. “I figured that there would still be enough of his Grace lingering, all things considered.”

“You were down there for a long time, Sam.” He thought about the look on his companion’s face. “The fact that there… that whatever ritual you used was possible is not a personal indictment.” 

He sighed. “Kind of is. I mean, really. But – we got some use out of it. So. Let’s, uh.” 

Cas stepped forward and gently stroked Sam’s face. It was something he’d seen done before, in film and television. He’d touched Meg in this way once and it had made her smile. Sam did not smile. His eyes narrowed. His lips parted. He shook his head ever so slightly, as though trying to make sense of something. “Sam,” Cas said softly. “It really is okay.”

Sam’s breath hitched a little. His pupils had contracted. “Um, sure. Uh. Okay, right. Let’s, uh, cuffs -- can you?” 

He withdrew his hand. “Yes. Of course. Tell me where you need me to be and I’ll meet you there.” 

Hazel eyes clouded over. “Right. Um.” He rattled off coordinates in Utah. “If, uh, I mean.”

“Are you unwell? Shall I send for Flagstaff?” If Sam was having a stroke he needed to get help for him as soon as possible.

His cheeks turned bright red. “No. No no, I’m fine.” Even Cas knew that “fine” was Winchester for “a wreck.” “Um. I - ’ll meet you there.” 

Castiel took the precaution of bringing Flagstaff with him anyway. He wanted to discuss Sam’s reaction with her. She frowned. “I think you may have shocked him, Castiel,” she pointed out as they waited to descend. “It has been some time since anyone has touched him with affection.” 

“That is not true. Sam and I have exchanged two hugs.” He crossed his arms across his chest and stuck his chin out defiantly. 

“Indeed. That kind of touch is more intimate, Castiel. Only people who are very close would attempt that. Very, er, personally close. Close family, like siblings or parent and child. Or lovers.” 

“Oh.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “Sam and I are not lovers.” 

“No.”

“Sam prefers women.” 

“Does he?” Her voice gave nothing away. 

“His brother tells me – told me – that he is heterosexual.” 

“His brother also believes him to be an incompetent who needs constant guidance when hunting, and yet it’s Sam who found Cain and not the entire heavenly host.” She gave a thin, tight smile. “Don’t lead the boy on, Castiel. He can’t take it. Right now he doesn’t believe that you would be interested. But if you give him signals that you don’t actually mean, the results could be catastrophic.” 

“I see.” He nodded. 

Sam’s motorcycle rolled into town. They were ready to take down Cain.


	2. Top Notch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Castiel make progress in their hunt for a solution to the problem of what Dean has become. Castiel believes that he is making progress in his relationship with Sam, but is there more at work here than a loving partner can solve?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains gendered and homophobic slurs. They do not reflect the opinions or views of the author or of others connected with this work; the person expressing them is intending to be hurtful. That's why they're using homophobic and gendered slurs. 
> 
> This chapter also contains sexual content as well as graphic violence.

Cain met Sam in a field full of bees. The father of murder, or so he was called, turned out to be a beekeeper. Castiel didn’t think of himself as particularly biased against demons. He’d loved Meg and he’d worked with Crowley. He simply couldn’t reconcile the beekeeping aspect of Cain with his own fondness for bees. How was it possible that he could have something so essential in common with the one who had murdered his own brother?

The memory of Balthazar’s grace exploding as Cas stood behind him came, unbidden, to his mind. 

Cain met Sam’s eyes squarely. “You must be the new Abel.” 

“My name is Sam.” He shrugged his shoulders back a little.

“I have to say, you’re not what I expected,” the demon observed, showing his hands.

A couple of bees circled lazily around his head.

“I get that a lot.” 

“I’ll bet you do. I bet I know why you’re here.” Sam gave a laconic shrug. “Revenge won’t get your brother back to you, Sam.” 

“Nope.” He gestured with his wrist and somehow a rope that had been hidden under his jacket – where, even Castiel couldn’t tell – appeared from out of nowhere. Evidently it had been tied into a lasso. A flick of the wrist, a flurry of movement and the rope settled around Cain’s arms. Cas looked at Flagstaff, who looked back at him and shrugged. “Not so much looking for revenge on you, Cain. Think of yourself more as a guinea pig.” He pulled the lasso tighter and one corner of his mouth quirked up. 

Cain smirked. “Do you really think that a rope – a little piece of hemp – can hold me, boy?” He didn’t seem to be taking this seriously, and to be honest the whole thing was more than a little silly. He’d probably only gotten caught in the lasso from surprise but then again, Sam could move very fast for a human.

“Nope.” His eyes glittered for a moment. 

Cain looked like he believed he would be able to break the twisted fibers easily. When he tried to move his arms he proved to be completely immobilized. “How is this even possible?” he growled, eyes going black in his rage. “A simple rope?”

“Apparently Josie Sands was into Wonder Woman comics.” Sam grinned. “And Dean used to give me a hard time about those. Cas, you have those shackles handy?” 

The angels made themselves visible and stepped forward, restraining the demon more securely. “Josie Sands?” Flagstaff inquired, raising an eyebrow.

“Abaddon’s final host. She was a Man of Letters, I found her notes and some of her effects in the bunker.” He offered a self-deprecating little grin. “We can be good for some things, you know.” 

Castiel frowned. “You are good for many things, Sam.” 

Sam blushed. Cain rolled his eyes and made sounds that sounded suspiciously like gagging. Flagstaff stepped on Cas’ foot. He didn’t know why. 

Sam had, at some point, altered the wards on the bunker so that the angels could teleport Cain into the bunker’s dungeon. He struggled against these bonds as Sam removed the lariat. “Guinea pig, huh?” the demon snarled. “I have to say, Dean didn’t give me the impression that you were the kind of kid who would resort to torture but I can sense Lucifer all around you. I shouldn’t be surprised.” 

Sam gave an easy little laugh that someone who didn’t know him probably would never realize was fake. “Yeah, you know, in Dean’s head, I’m still some seven year old quaking at the monster in the closet. He forgets – I guess he never wanted to really know – who and what I really am. I mean, spend enough time locked up with Michael and Lucifer and you’re going to pick up certain… traits, right? I mean, even if you didn’t have them already. Which…” He looked up at the ceiling, considering. “I mean, I was kind of designed for him. Built for him. The work of centuries, really.” Flagstaff gave a shiver. “But it’s not really torture that I’m looking for here, Cain. It’s answers. And based on things that you said to Dean, I think you’re going to be reasonably into it.” 

“Why would I possibly want to help you?” he spat.

“Because we want to remove the Mark.” Sam smiled then, showing teeth, and Castiel found himself surprised by how much he liked that predatory smile on the Winchester. A word sprang to his mind, unbidden: wicked. The smile was wicked. Why an angel should like something described as wicked would bear further investigating later. “The effects of the Mark drove you to suicide once, didn’t they? And you threw that blade into the deepest parts of the sea to get it away from you. What if we could release you from that curse?”

Cain scoffed. “What makes you think you can do it? I’ve tried everything. I’ve tried cutting it out, burning it out, cutting the arm off –“

“Have you tried rituals designed by humans and angels working together?” Sam offered. “Because I’m pretty sure that the situation is unique.”

“Nice try, kid. But I’m pretty sure you’d require a part of Lucifer himself to get rid of this thing. He’d have to re-absorb it.” Cain had paused to think about the prospect, but now he shook his head. 

Sam brought his face down to Cain’s level. “I took Lucifer into myself, took control back and forced him back into his Cage, Cain. I’m not saying that it was easy. Or fun. But I did it. I can handle a sliver.” 

The demon and the hunter locked eyes for a full minute. Castiel found himself holding his breath. He didn’t understand why Sam had decided to present the situation to Cain in this manner, as though the demon had any kind of say in the matter. He was going to be cleansed of the Mark. They were going to experiment on him until they found a ritual that worked. The demon had been restrained and they were going to do as they pleased with him. That was all there was to it. In the end, though, Cain nodded. “Do it.” 

Sam’s smile was genuine this time; he showed his dimples. Castiel found himself responding with a smile of his own as he fetched the necessary components, which took very little time at all. Some of the components were fairly basic: sage, rosemary and juniper for purification, all steeped in holy oil. Evidently Sam kept a little jar of exactly this in his duffel at all times – who knew? There was a blue paint, made up of lime-rich sand, copper, natron and woad mixed with ammonia. There was a bucket of snow from the top of Mount Ararat, and another bucket of holy water drawn from Heaven’s well. “This probably won’t feel real good,” he told Cain with a grimace. “I’m sorry about that. If there’s anything that I can offer you for the pain afterward please let me know; I know demons don’t really get better than buzzed.” 

“I don’t care about pain if it gets the damn thing off my arm,” his ancestor told him. “Just get to chanting.” 

Sam huffed. He and Flagstaff set up the room with the appropriate candles and Castiel grabbed the notes Sam and Arariel had devised together. Sam carefully anointed Cain’s head, hands and mouth with the infused holy oil and then painted over the Mark with an obscure sigil in the blue paint. Flagstaff poured a ladle full of the water of Ararat over Cain’s head. Cas began chanting. 

There was no doubt that the ritual was having some effect. After all, the electric lights dimmed and the Mark began to glow, red mixing with the blue to create a very appealing shade of purple. Castiel watched carefully as he read along for fifteen minutes before pausing. Sam mouthed the words as they went along, keeping an eye on Cain and an eye on the angels. When Cas paused at the quarter way mark, he re-applied the ointment and allowed Flagstaff to ladle the water of Heaven directly onto the Mark. Cain howled and steam rose from the wound. The demon struggled, but he was bound fast. 

Sam dried the injury with his own shirt and stroked Cain’s hair gently before proceeding, re-applying the woaded paint and using the melted snow from Ararat himself. The gesture, although it could bring no physical comfort, brought Cain to stillness and almost made Cas late starting up again. Then _this_ was compassion. He’d encouraged it in his angels. He’d tried to display it himself, healing the sick and injured while wandering after Purgatory. And Sam was exhibiting this trait toward Cain, a demon who had directly harmed his family. The urge to protect this man, the beautiful soul that could offer such comfort even to those who had hurt him, welled up in the angel so suddenly and so strongly that it was like a physical ache. Sam deserved happiness, he deserved to feel good, and Cas wanted to be the one to give him that peace and bliss. 

The process was repeated twice again, until the full hour had been completed. By this point the blue pigment seemed to supersede the angry red mark on Cain’s forearm, which could still be seen but only barely. It looked more like a scar that had been covered by an odd tattoo. Sam met Cas’ eyes. Now the human took over the chant, which he did from memory. He crouched down to Cain’s level and met his eyes. As he chanted, he took hold of the demon’s arm and rolled up his shirt to expose his own limb. When his section of the chant was complete he touched their arms together.

A burst of light – blinding to humans, painful even to angels – filled the room. Cain gave a shout. Sam grunted and collapsed to the ground. Flagstaff and Cas both ran forward as soon as the light faded; they knew entirely too well what it had been. Cas spared a moment as he raced to Sam’s side to consider how overwhelming Lucifer’s actual presence must have been if that had been just a shard. He’d encountered him on this plane, but only in the poor decaying vessel once known as Nick. 

Cain sagged in his bonds, Cas could easily see that from his perspective the ritual had been a success. He was still a demon, of course, but he was only a demon. Sam didn’t seem to want sympathy. He struggled to his feet. His bottom lip was red from where he’d bit back a cry, but his eyes had an almost feverish cast to them as he turned to the demon. Cas looked from his face to his arm with reluctance. Nothing marred the perfection of his flesh. “Alright,” he gasped, and then he got his voice under control. “Okay. It looks like Option A worked out. How do you feel, Cain?”

“Seriously?” The Father of Murder chuckled. “I’m still a demon. But I feel better than I have in a good five thousand years.” 

The long-legged hunter grabbed his stool, which had been knocked over when he fell, and risked another genuine smile. “You have no idea how happy I am to hear that. The question I have for you now is, what happens next?” 

“What do you mean?” Flagstaff frowned, stepping forward. 

“Well, I mean, we know how to cure a demon. It’s not – well, I can find an exorcist who can perform the ritual without much risk. I can show them how to do it, it’s not hard. It’s long, it’s kind of boring. But it’s something you can have. If you want it.”

“And I’ll be human.” 

“You’ll be human,” Sam confirmed. “It’s an option. Or I can exorcise you back to Hell. I mean, if you want. But I’m sure Crowley will be very interested in what happened here, and you don’t exactly have the super-juice to hold him off anymore.” 

“I don’t want to be either,” Cain told him calmly. “When I gave your brother that Mark, I did it under the condition that he come back and use that Blade on me when the time came. I made my decision a long time ago.”

“Are you sure about this, Cain?” Sam put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s permanent; there is no coming back.”

“I made my decision centuries ago, Sam. Do it.” Sam nodded once, and then there was a flash of steel. Cas had no idea where he’d even been hiding Ruby’s knife. The ancient demon’s body lit up in orange and red and then he went limp. 

No one said anything for a moment. Then Flagstaff stepped forward. “I will take care of the body,” she said. “He will rest beside his brother.” 

Castiel thought that it was a matter of perfect indifference to both Cain and Abel as to where Cain’s body lay. After all, when a demon was given the final death, they had no afterlife. They simply ceased to exist. And Abel’s spirit rested in Heaven, frolicking among his sheep or whatever it was that he considered eternal happiness. The angel suspected that his sister wasn’t making that choice for Cain’s sake, or for Abel’s, when he saw Sam’s weak grin. “Thanks, Flagstaff. I mean, I get that he wasn’t the best guy but…”

Her answering smile was warm as she released the demon’s body from its shackles and disappeared. Cas and Sam were alone. “How do you feel, Sam?” he asked, stepping closer to the human.

“Okay.” He shrugged. “I’m glad that worked.”

He reached out and put a hand on Sam’s shoulder. He could feel the piece of embedded grace from the Mark swirling around in Sam – too little to be useful, washed clean and purified thanks to the ritual and the holy oil, but present nonetheless. He couldn’t be ignorant of it. “I meant for yourself. That was… taxing for you. And, I suspect, traumatic.” 

“It doesn’t matter, Cas. I can take a little angst. I’ve had worse.” He forced a grin. “Don’t worry. No white rabbits.” 

“What do rabbits have to do with anything?”

He closed his eyes and chuckled. “It’s an expression. It means it didn’t trigger any flashbacks or hallucinations or anything. I’ll be fine, you don’t have to worry about me flipping out and screwing everything up. I can hold it together.” 

He shook his head. “Is it that unusual that someone just wants you to be okay because they desire your wellness for its own sake, Sam?” 

He sighed and straightened his back. “Cas, it’s okay. You don’t have to fake it. I learned my lesson with Ruby. I know better now. It’s not the only way to get me to be productive.” 

Castiel sighed. “So now if someone expresses concern and affection for you it’s because they’re… trying to get you to be more productive.” 

“I’m fine, Cas. Really. We know that this works. Let’s just focus on finding some way of restraining Dean when we catch up to him, okay? I’m not going to be able to talk him into cooperating for – what, nine hours, for the ritual and the cure? I can be persuasive but I’ve never talked Dean into a damn thing, I don’t think I’m going to start now.” He shrugged away from the physical contact. He might have seemed a little reluctant to relinquish contact, or that might have been wishful thinking on Castiel’s part. 

It took another two weeks before they managed to come up with an adequate trap mechanism between them. For his part Castiel thought that Sam was being entirely too cautious. The man had warded the Bunker’s dungeon so that no demon could escape it even if they managed to free themselves of the shackles and the ropes and the vertical devil’s trap and the one painted on the floor and the one painted on the ceiling – it simply wasn’t going to happen. Uriel was no longer with them to betray them, and Sam was barely willing to allow Cas and Flagstaff into the bunker. Talking him into allowing other angels in was an adventure in and of itself but it wasn’t going to be optional when the time came. They were going to need help with Dean if they wanted him to survive becoming human again. But Cas remembered Sam’s anger – no, his wrath – when Dean had been harmed at Alastair’s hands. 

“Who do you think he’s trying to protect?” he asked Flagstaff in private one day. “I mean, he can’t be protecting Dean this time because Dean’s the one that the trap is for. And I don’t believe that he’s all that concerned about protecting himself.”

“Maybe he’s trying to protect Dean,” she suggested gently. “If Dean kills one of you and then becomes human again, he won’t be able to live with the guilt. Sam doesn’t believe he will, anyway.” 

“Mmm. He told me that he is lining up a backup exorcist, a human, in case anything happens to him between now and the time that Dean is captured.”

She turned her head. “Castiel, I am concerned for him. Has he confided in you?”

“Not really. He told me that I didn’t need to pretend to care for him.” He frowned. “I found that distressing. He believed that I was following in the footsteps of the demon Ruby.”

She nodded. “No one in his life has ever had faith in him, Castiel. Or cared for his well-being, except for demons.” 

“His brother cared enough to take all necessary means to ensure his survival. That hardly speaks of indifference to his well-being.”

“That’s not his well-being. That’s survival. That means he’s breathing, whether or not he wants to. Has he shared any plans for after his brother is cured? A vacation, a break, a hunt?” When he shook his head, she folded her lips together. “I think you should be very concerned, Castiel.” 

“He believes I’m only using him to help Dean.”

“And it isn’t true?”

“No.” 

“Then prove it to him.” She rolled her eyes. “Honestly. I’m not a human either. You’ve known him for years. You know how to approach him. It’s up to you to decide what it is that you want from him.” 

Once the trap was in place they could go after Dean. It wasn’t as though they didn’t have a starting point. Dean hadn’t been hiding his presence. He’d been calling Sam the entire time. Cas decided he would now be Sam’s constant companion. He wanted to hear these calls for himself. Sam didn’t talk about them, he didn’t even mention them unless Castiel remembered to directly ask, but he knew that the man found them highly distressing.

And no wonder. Bodies began to turn up. An entire “gentleman’s lounge” full of customers was slaughtered in one night out in Las Vegas, no apparent survivors. The police gave credit to a “massive bar fight gone wrong,” but their crime scene technicians noted the presence of sulfur dust at the scene. Six sex workers from the same establishment were found dead in Reno, throats slit cleanly and efficiently. Half of the town of Elko burned in one night. 

Cas announced his presence to the demon right away. He hoped that some part of the demon would remember their profound bond and perhaps leave Sam alone, take pity on him or something, but this didn’t happen. If nothing else his taunts became even crueler. “See, Sammy? Even Cas knows you can’t make it on your own. He should be minding his own business and taking care of Heaven, looking after his own kind, and instead he has to waste his time babysitting your weak, pathetic, joyless ass. You think he wants to be sitting there with you? You think he wants to be hanging around watching you rot in that mausoleum of a bunker?” 

“Your brother is making his ancestors proud,” Cas seethed through gritted teeth as Sam looked away. “He’s a credit to your mother.”

“He got our mother killed. She never wanted him anyway. You forget, I was there, Cas. Thanks to you, of course. I got to see her sell him to Azazel. And Sam has never made anyone proud, not a day in his life. Not since the day he took his first steps and fell flat on his face. Screamed like a little girl, and I remember thinking ‘This screaming little turd is supposed to grow up and help us beat the thing that killed Mom?’ I knew even then that you were nothing but a liability, Sammy.” 

Sam looked gray now. “He makes me proud,” Castiel informed Dean firmly, and ended the call. He turned to Sam. “He says those things to hurt you, Sam.” 

The younger Winchester still had enough spirit left to huff out a little laugh. “Yeah. I’m aware.” He looked away again. “Doesn’t mean it’s not true though. Anyway, we should head out. I’d like to start the search. It doesn’t sound like Dean thinks that I’m going to be doing anything about him and I guess I’m okay with that. It keeps him underestimating us.” 

“We can head out in the morning, Sam. You should sleep.” 

“You really think I can sleep after that?” His voice was quiet, dead. 

“Then let’s go back to your hideaway. I’ll watch over you there, I can help you to sleep.” 

He grimaced. “No offense, Cas, but I’m… not exactly keen on having angels mess around with my head. It doesn’t usually work out in my favor.” 

“I have hurt you.” He followed Sam back to the dungeon, where his portal opened. He could admit it now, had to admit it if he wanted to have any chance of succeeding with Sam. And it was true, he had hurt Sam. How much of Sam’s current state was because of what he’d done? 

“It doesn’t matter. You were doing what you needed to do to get to Dean. I was a means to an end.” He disappeared for a moment. After a second, Castiel saw a blue symbol appear in a circle near the doorway. He stepped into it and emerged in another place. 

This was a bunker, to be certain, but it resembled the Men of Letters facility in the same way that an under-funded inner-city library in Detroit might resemble the Great Library of Alexandria. There was one room, and it wasn’t large. The only light came from a kerosene lamp, and the walls were lined with shelves. Books covered the shelves, except for one shelf that was equally divided between bottled water and canned spinach. One of the shelves was half-height; a bedroll had been spread out on top of it. “You’ve been living here for two months?” he gasped. 

“Like I said, Dean never knew about it.” He shrugged. “I’ve got a couple of these places here and there. I mean, they’re not really mine, I’m pretty sure Samuel would be pretty disgusted to know I was even alive to use them, but –“

“Samuel was a vile man, Sam. His good opinion should not matter to you.”

“He was still my grandfather. Anyway. We’ll head out first thing. Things are set up well at the Men of Letters bunker. Your people should be able to… I guess, zap him, like you did Alastair… once we get the cuffs on him, right?” 

“Yes. And we’ll start the cleansing and cure immediately. We have to catch him first. Are you prepared to fight your brother, Sam?” 

“It won’t be the first time.” He grimaced. “Just make sure you’re there with the cuffs. He won’t stop when I’m down or unconscious anymore.” 

“Sam?” 

“Yeah, Cas?”

“What are your plans for when your brother is cured? Will you take him somewhere and try to reconnect as brothers perhaps?” 

He looked away, moistened his lips. “I, uh, I haven’t given the whole ‘after’ thing a lot of thought. Dean’s generally the one who makes the plans. I don’t see a reason that would change. I mean, I don’t much care what happens as long as we can help him. You know?” 

He wasn’t lying, but he wasn’t telling the full truth either. “You should sleep, Sam. If you won’t let me help you to sleep, at least let me stay with you and watch over you.” 

Sam side-eyed him. “Seriously?” 

“You may find it helpful.” He glanced at the bedroll. “Perhaps in your bed at the bunker would be more restful.” 

“This is fine, Cas.” 

“You selected this as a penance, Sam. Even I can see that. But Dean is in the state he’s in because of the choices he made. You have nothing to do penance for in this case and it will not help you to recover your brother. Come.” He put his hand on Sam and teleported them both back to the proper bunker, leading Sam back to the room that had been designated as his. He knew – because Dean had told him – that Sam had never truly accepted this place, that he’d never “moved in” whatever that meant, but he wasn’t prepared for just how impersonal the space was. “Sam, you need a space that belongs to you. That reminds you of who you are and makes you feel safe.” 

“That’s never going to be here, Cas,” he pointed out softly. “Half of my time here I apparently spent as someone else, remember? That’s not ‘love,’ for the record.” 

“He was desperate, Sam,” he tried. 

“And I wasn’t?” 

“But if he hadn’t you’d be dead!”

“And Dean would be human, Kevin would be alive, your good buddy Gadreel would never have teamed up with Metatron in the first place, and oh yeah I’d be dead.” He turned away. “Let’s just… clean up this mess, can we?” 

“After you go to sleep.” He believed he’d gotten through to Sam with his speech after he’d ejected Gadreel. Apparently that had not been the case. “Come on.” He unbuttoned Sam’s flannel shirt and guided him to a sitting position on the bed as a prelude to removing his shoes. “Do you need assistance with your pants, Sam?” 

“I’m fine, Cas. Please leave my pants alone.” His face showed a combination of horror, amusement and indulgence. 

“Then lie down and go to sleep.” 

Hazel eyes rolled back impressively, but he did lie down under the covers with his head on the pillow. Castiel sat stiffly beside him. He had not spent much time as a human, but he knew that Sam’s mattress was quite possibly the worst he’d ever encountered. “I think my mattress at the homeless shelter might have been better,” he observed idly. 

“I’m pretty sure Dean’s is memory foam,” the human groaned. “You can go bunk down in there if you can tolerate the sulfur.” 

“I don’t wish to surround myself with Dean’s memory, Sam. I want to be with you.” 

Sam snorted, but his eyes closed and soon he drifted off to sleep. Sleep for Sam was soon followed by nightmares, as was often the case. The angel found himself torn. He could use his grace and force the hunter into a deeper and more restful sleep where the dreams would not find him, but he’d already specifically said that he did not want angels doing anything with his mind. He could clearly see, however, that his friend was suffering. He laid down beside Sam and wrapped an arm around him, drawing him close to his own chest. Without waking, Sam burrowed closer to the angel, clutching his arm like it was a lifeline. 

Cas allowed himself a smile as the symptoms of the nightmare subsided and Sam settled. 

The human awoke the next morning, face scarlet as he recognized his position. “Cas, what the Hell?” he blurted before racing to the bathroom. Cas puzzled over the reasons for his companion’s discomfiture in the ten minutes he took to return, freshly showered. “Were you… cuddling me?” Sam demanded, calmer and no longer the color of a tomato.

“Yes,” he replied simply.

“What the Hell? Since when do angels cuddle?” He began to draw on fresh clothing underneath his robe. 

“You had a nightmare. You said you didn’t want interference with your normal mental function so I tried something more… natural.” He looked away. Apparently this had been the wrong thing. “Did you find it unpleasant?”

He discarded the robe, facing Castiel bare-chested. “Um, no. Not at all. That’s kind of the problem, Cas. Waking up in someone’s arms is a good feeling, as a general rule.” 

“Then you should make a point of waking up in someone’s arms more frequently.” It was something that Dean had remarked on more than once. Now that Castiel thought about it, he realized that Dean had never really been happy when Sam did share someone’s bed, either.

“It’s just generally advisable to remember going to sleep in that person’s arms when you do,” Sam added quickly. “I’ve had some problems with that recently?”

Ah. “I apologize, Sam. I meant to comfort you, not to make you think yourself possessed again.” He made a decision. “I promise to ensure that you always remember going to bed with me in the future.” He reached out and skimmed a hand lightly over Sam’s chest, lingering over the space where his tattoo had been. “You are cold. Is the hot water not functioning?”

“It’s working just fine, Cas,” Sam murmured, purposefully looking anywhere but at him. 

“You chose to take a cold shower?” Cas squinted up at him, trying to meet his eyes. “Why?” 

“Because sometimes humans have an inappropriate reaction to waking up with another person.” He let out a little whimper as Cas’ fingers ghosted over each of his nipples in turn. “Look, Cas, I get that you’re trying to - uh, something - but -” 

“You are becoming aroused.” Castiel noted as he traced the cut of Sam’s abdominal muscles to the waistband of his jeans. 

“Yes, Cas.” Sam blushed beautifully, highlighting his cheekbones and his brilliant eyes. “And that’s not something you want… from _me_.” He bit his lip.

“I want for you to be happy and comfortable, Sam,” Castiel retorted before sucking a nipple into his mouth. 

Sam groaned. “You don’t have to do this, Cas.” His pupils had dilated and his skin was losing the chill that his lust-banishing shower had inflicted, but he kept his trembling hands resolutely at his side. Castiel wasn’t entirely sure what to make of that - Sam clearly enjoyed the contact, wanted the touches, but was holding himself back. Why would he refrain from something he clearly desired? 

Castiel smiled. “But I want to.” And he did, truly. He enjoyed the feel of Sam’s pulse underneath his hand, the feel of Sam’s skin against his own. His vessel, too, seemed to be responding with lust. 

Sam looked away, but nodded, already removing Cas’ trench coat. He kissed Castiel as he helped him get rid of the shirt and tie. Castiel thought that he’d learned something about kissing from Meg, but Sam was something else entirely. The joining of their lips was like a fresh recharge of his Grace, like bathing in the water at the center of the Garden. Nothing had ever made him feel this way before and the sensation spread to every corner of his being, vessel and Grace combined. He needed to know every inch, every molecule of Sam. The man’s tongue was either made for sin or a gift from God Himself, Castiel couldn’t decide - either way, it transcended the purely physical as it forced the angel’s own into submission and then roughly teased his nipples into stiff peaks. His hands might have been created to shape mountains as they slid up and down Castiel’s biceps and then gripped his hips, pulling him closer. Whatever mysterious force led Sam to hold himself back had broken, and now he was a frenzy of activity. He still would not meet Castiel’s eyes, however.

Sam guided them toward the bed, divesting them of their trousers in short order. Cas let himself be guided down, drowning in the sight, the feel, the scent of Sam. He had enjoyed sex as a human, it was true, but as an angel this was overwhelming. Sam’s soul burned so brightly in the cage of his body that Castiel had to close his eyes, even though he didn’t want to miss a thing as one of Sam’s massive hands closed around their erections and began to jerk them gently.

Castiel moved his hands tenderly down the expanse of Sam's back, his flanks, squeezed the globes of his ass before dipping a finger down the crease, making Sam moan as he teased the rim of his hole. It went on like this for several minutes, with Castiel touching as much of Sam as he could reach, while Sam buried his face in his neck, trying to muffle the sounds of his pleasure and refusing to look up as he continued to stroke both of them until Cas came with a surge of Grace that he barely remembered to contain. Sam followed a few seconds after, hissing Cas’ name from between clenched teeth. Still shaking with aftershocks, he rolled onto his back and wrapped an arm around Castiel’s shoulders, drawing him close. The angel remembered this posture from his sexual adventure as a human, although then it had been April’s head pillowed on his chest. “That was very pleasant, Sam,” Cas told him.

“Thanks, Cas. I, uh, I enjoyed it too.” Sam gave a small smile, but his eyes were shadowed as he stared up at the ceiling. Had Castiel done something wrong? Had he misread Sam’s responses? Sam didn’t seem inclined toward conversation but he held Castiel for a while before insisting that they both shower - separately, much to Cas’ dismay. They had a demon to catch, after all. 

Sam offered to steal them a proper car to go chasing after Dean, but there was no need. There was likewise no need to take twenty-two hours from the hunt to drive through cornfields and nuclear testing facilities. Castiel took a spare helmet, climbed on the back of Sam’s bike and set them down on a deserted road about an hour outside of Las Vegas. He’d never been on a motorcycle before but now he found that he quite liked riding behind Sam. He liked holding onto him, having his arms around his narrow waist and feeling his muscles beneath his hands. Sam didn’t say anything about it – what could he really say, with the engines roaring and the wind flying past their ears? 

Back in the early days, when Castiel had reported to Zachariah, he’d been told that contact with Sam was dangerous. The man’s blood might well harm an angel and would surely corrupt one. No, it was best to avoid all contact and definitely never to permit physical contact. Now he knew, of course. There were no dangers to him from Sam Winchester’s blood. His soul, perhaps, might blind or burn him out completely but that was a risk he was willing to take. The beauty of Sam’s mind, his compassion and his loyalty, made every danger worth facing. The beauty of his body certainly didn’t hurt. 

They checked into a ratty motel, typical of the sort of place that the Winchesters would choose. “Okay. First things first,” Sam sighed. “When Dean called last night I heard background music. He was at a show. The show is one of the topless dance reviews running not too far from here at a place called Devil’s Den.” 

“Really?” Cas wrinkled his nose. “That sounds tasteless.” 

“It’s a partially-nude dinner theater, Cas. I don’t think it’s intended for people who are worried about maintaining their prestige.” He grimaced. “It does however have an all-you-can-eat pie buffet, so it seems like a likely place to find Dean.” He wrinkled his nose. “I hope we don’t have to stay too long.” 

Cas frowned. “Is it usual for two men to visit such a place together?” 

“Sure. Why not? I think Dean dragged me in there once on our annual Vegas pilgrimage years ago.” He shrugged and glanced at himself in the mirror. “I should shave.”

“If the entertainment is of a sexual nature, I would have assumed that this would be something men would pursue privately.” 

“Nah. A lot of guys want to be seen getting lucky, or whatever. With the chance to get lucky. Never made much sense to me but I was never really into the whole –“ he waved a hand around - “ _thing_ anyway.” 

“Dean took me to a brothel once.” 

“I’ll bet that went over like a lead balloon.” He snickered. “If it makes you feel any better he tried the same thing with me when I was like seventeen.”

“Did he?”

“Yeah. Dad was working a job and he decided that it was time for ‘his baby brother to become a man.’ Never had a clue that I’d already – well, anyway. It doesn’t matter.” He glanced at Cas. 

“You were already accustomed to keeping secrets from your family.” 

“Yeah, well, there was the whole college thing, the whole freak thing, all that. Being bisexual was just icing on the ‘things to get killed for’ cake.” He grimaced.

“Your brother would not kill you for liking men as much as women.” He offered a thin smile. “He might be surprised, but he is not homophobic.”

“Not now – well, not after Dad died,” he corrected quickly. “Right now he’d kill me for a Snickers bar. I mean, demon, right? But Dad – maybe he wouldn’t have, but I couldn’t be sure. He never encouraged me to, uh, enjoy my sexuality the way he did with Dean and if Dad told Dean to do something about me, he’d have done it back then. So – I couldn’t let anyone know. After I left for school though I didn’t care who knew.” He shook his head. “Why am I telling you all this?”

“Because I asked.” 

“Mmm.” He disappeared into the bathroom and spent some time trimming back his beard. When he emerged Cas stared openly. “What, did I miss a spot?”

“No. That’s a very becoming look for you.” He’d trimmed the facial hair back very close to his face, so that it was still present but clearly well groomed. “You should consider keeping it like that for a time.” 

Sam gave him a look of concern. “Are you feeling okay, Cas?”

“Never better. Why?” 

“That’s just… not something I’d expect you to say.” He ran a hand self-consciously over the beard. Castiel considered doing the same and opted not to. He remembered what Flagstaff had said about “creepy.” “Are you ready to go?” 

The establishment was just as dreadful as Castiel expected, which was a shame. Many of the women were very talented and even pretty. They chose seats near the back where they would have to fend off fewer offers for lap dances. Those that did approach seemed attracted to Cas’ tie. Sam didn’t get approached as often, although Cas noticed that he was the object of quite a lot of attention. His sheer size seemed to intimidate many of the dancers. This was fine with Castiel. When one of the women approached Sam he began to detect the stirrings of a new emotion in his belly: jealousy. He did not wish to explore it further. 

Dean appeared after about two hours. He looked surprised to see them, that much was obvious from the way his eyes widened and his mouth spread in a slow, sensuous grin. He didn’t seem intimidated, though. He laughed out loud, grabbed the nearest dancer working the floor and ripped her head from her body. Then he put his fist through the glass on the door holding an emergency fire axe, pulled the weapon out and charged. 

Sam bolted, running for the wall. The few people who had been nearby screamed and ran, but the club was already crowded and chaotic without the additional violence. “Heya, Cas,” Dean leered on his way past, aiming for his brother. 

The fire alarm began to blare, immediately cutting power to the sound system. Castiel turned around to see Sam duck under a blow from the axe and step inside, adding an uppercut with his left hand that would have sent Dean flying across the room if he’d been human. The axe buried itself in the wall but the demon recovered, pulling a knife and stabbing up and into Sam’s armpit. 

Cas stepped in, pressing a hand to the gushing wound immediately. “Aw, isn’t that cute?” Dean chuckled. “The little angel that couldn’t, coming to take care of his little girlfriend.” He blocked another punch from Sam and one from Cas. “Give it up, ladies. I’m top of the food chain. You don’t stand a chance against me.” 

“Then why did you bother coming to fight us?” Sam grunted back, wrapping a massive hand around Dean’s neck. 

“Because I like to kill things, Sammy.” His voice sounded affected by the strangulation but he definitely didn’t fight like he was. “And one of the things at the top of my kill list is you. Aw, what’s the matter, bitch? I thought you wanted to die! All of a sudden you’ve changed your mind? No take backs, Sammy.” He pulled his hand back for a punch and Castiel noticed that he still had blood on his knife. “You have been such a pain in my ass, for such a long time. It’s going to be so good when you’re finally not holding me back at all, ever again.” The hand connected with Sam’s face.

Cas looked down. Sam had chosen a dark shirt, but the angel could see that it was damp in the front. A quick touch showed that a spilled drink had not done that damage. He grabbed the demonic handcuffs from his pocket and managed to slip one onto Dean’s wrist. “Sam, the rope!” he grunted, using every bit of his strength to pull the manacle over to Dean’s other arm.

Sam already looked pale, but he managed to pull the rope from under his jacket and get the lasso around Dean’s arms. “You’ve got to be joking,” Dean snarled, bucking against the restraint.

“Now, Hannah!” Cas barked, not caring about the humans witnessing the supernatural for the first time. They’d get over it, or not. Rumors about government cover-ups or divine intervention or whatever were better than having this on the streets.

A blue bolt of lightning arced down from the ceiling and struck Dean. Cas grabbed Sam, who sagged against him as they reappeared in the bunker’s dungeon. “Flagstaff!” he called. Sam was unconscious. Dean’s obscene howls filled the room as Cas picked Sam up bridal style and carried Sam back to his own room. 

Flagstaff appeared soon after. “What happened to him?” she demanded. 

“His brother,” he reported. “Can you help me? I expect that we’ll need your help after the ritual as well.” 

She laid her hands on his abdomen while Cas applied them to his jaw. “Take the time to talk to him,” she advised. “He’s just had a fairly traumatic experience. And I don’t think that he should go into his confrontation with his brother without… processing it. He’s being guarded. Take as much time as you need.” She left the room.

Sam came to at Cas’ touch a moment later. “Did we get him?“

“Yes, Sam. We have him secured.” 

The hunter immediately tried to get off the bed, but Cas stopped him. “Wait. Sam, he is secure. He’s being guarded. I want to make sure that you’re in a good place to go in there.” He forced himself to grin. “If nothing else, you should clean yourself up. You’ve lost more than a little blood.” 

“I’m about to lose more.” The corners of his mouth twitched, like he wanted to smile. “Look, Cas, I just want it to be over, okay? I want Dean to be human again.” 

“And when that happens? He said some terrible things to you.”

“Nothing he wasn’t already thinking. It’s okay, Cas. I can do this. I mean –“

“Sam, he never thought that before.”

“He did. And it was all true. But now I’m going to make it all… I’m going to fix it, Cas. I’m going to fix everything.” He smiled now, and the smile reached his eyes, but it wasn’t the kind of smile that Cas had ever wanted to see there. 

“Sam –“ He cut himself off. “I’ll be right there with you. I’m not going to let anything bad happen to you, okay?” 

Sam gave the thin smile that Dean had described as his “I’m humoring you” smile and left to make his ritual confession, the one that would purify his blood for the cure. It didn’t take long and together they made their way back to the dungeon. Cas couldn’t help but feel that he’d missed something somehow, that he’d lost an opportunity.

The contrast between Cain’s cleansing and Dean’s could not have been more marked. Cain had been a willing participant in the process, once he’d been made aware of what was being attempted. Dean – well, he was not. He taunted Sam with his inability to come up with the ritual before Dean had become a demon. He taunted Sam with the fact that the ritual was being performed on Dean against his will, in violation of his autonomy – “So much for everyone’s right to decide for themselves, huh Sammy? I guess that only applies to demon-blooded filth like you, not to real demons. Like me. Which is your fault after all. I mean, I only got this way because you turned me away.” 

“That’s not how it happened,” Castiel pointed out before he could stop himself. “You abandoned him and you know it.” 

“Oh, sticking up for your little butt buddy there, Angel?” Dean sneered. “That… that’s nice to see. Of course, you’re just using him. The way angels have always used humans, especially Winchesters. But Sammy, he likes being used. Don’t you, little brother?” He added extra emphasis to the last two words that left no doubt as to the message he intended to convey. 

“Is there no way to perform this ritual without gagging him?” Hannah muttered. 

Sam star the anointing and the ritual began. Dean tried to drown out the chanting with shouts and epithets, but the ritual did not require that anyone hear the chant, simply that it take place. It wasn’t as though Dean could move, after all. He harangued Sam the most – after all, he had the most ammunition against him. He went after Sam’s family loyalty, the fact that everyone he’d dared to love had died, his poor relationship with his father. The fact that only demons had ever thought he’d amount to anything, and that he’d wound up disappointing even them in the end. How now, Sam had no one and nothing that cared for him, and he never would. Through it all Sam worked silently and methodically, mouthing the words to the chant as though he might need to step in as a prompter. 

When the time came, he absorbed and cleansed the sliver of Lucifer’s Grace embedded in the Mark, just as he had before. Flagstaff watched from outside the room. Cas could see tears running down her face at that; perhaps they’d discussed his feelings about the archangel he’d housed. Dean alone was unimpressed. “So now you’ve got the Mark off,” he commented. “I’m still a demon. I’m still looking forward to skinning you alive and making a new jacket from your skin.” 

Sam smirked. “Do you really think that hasn’t been done?” He leaned in close. “I mean, who do you think taught Alastair, Dean?” He turned to Castiel. “Syringe.” 

Cas hadn’t been part of the curing ritual when it had happened the first time. He’d been too busy breaking Heaven. Now, though, he found himself startled by the way that Sam was able to jam that massive needle into his own arm without so much as a grimace and fill the chamber with his own blood. There was power being built here, every angel could feel it. Even Dean could feel it. 

He spat and tried to jerk his head away, but one of Sam’s massive hands was enough to hold his frantic head in place as the needle went into his neck. “First injection,” Sam growled, and turned his back to return to Cas. He set his watch to alert him in one hour.

“Do you really think you can cure me?” Dean laughed. “What makes you think I want to be cured, huh?” 

“That’s something you can address after you’re human again. You’re a danger to everyone around you, Dean.” He sat down on the floor, back against the wall. 

“Don’t engage with him, Sam. He’s trying to make you doubt yourself,” Cas advised.

“Why would today be any different?” Sam chuckled. 

“If that’s your criteria, you should’ve put yourself down years ago,” the demon snorted. “I mean – mom. Dad. Me. Jessica. Sarah. Brady. Madison. Ruby. Amy Pond.” 

“I tried, Dean. Someone couldn’t manage to let it go.” 

“I won’t be making that mistake again.” 

“He can be taught!”

Cas hauled Sam to his feet. “Come on.” He moved him out into the hallway. “Sam, engaging with Dean won’t help anything. It will only make you feel worse and give him power over you, let him think he’s won.” 

Sam sighed. “He can think whatever he wants as long as we cure him, Castiel. And it’s not like he’s saying anything that’s not the full truth. I mean –“ 

“Sam Winchester, do not finish that sentence.” He put his hand over Sam’s mouth to make his point. “You are beautiful to me. You are important to me. There is no reason that you should not feel as beautiful as you are.” He leaned forward and pulled Sam down, touching his lips to Sam’s. 

For a second he thought he’d gone too far. After that Sam’s body caught up with current events and he responded. Cas felt the heat radiating off his body. He wanted to wrap himself up in it, or to wrap them both up in his wings and enjoy the sensation of Sam’s heat warming them both. “What the Hell?” Sam asked when they parted. 

“Do not engage with the demon, Sam,” he counseled. “Give him the injections. Then come back out here with me.” He paused. “We can kiss again, if you like.” 

Sam laughed a little. It seemed somewhat sad, which made little sense to Castiel. It wasn’t as though this was the first time they’d kissed or that kissing was as far as they’d gone. Why should kissing make Sam sad? “Okay, Cas.” 

For seven more hours, Sam only returned to the dungeon to administer injections. He did not speak to his brother. Neither did he initiate any more kissing, much to Cas’ dismay. He didn’t feel it appropriate to start anything himself, not again. He thought that perhaps Sam might not be feeling all that well. He was donating quite a lot of blood, after all. His face took on a sunken appearance and he began to sweat despite having the appearance of a chill. Dean stopped his harangues by the end of the sixth hour and turned to pleas. “You can’t do this to me, Sammy,” he begged. “You just can’t.” 

Sam continued to ignore him, returning to the corridor to sit in silence. 

Finally, the eighth hour came. Sam administered the final injection, and he looked like he was going to fall over where he stood. He then sliced his palm open, revealing an orange glow. Cas stifled a gasp. Sam repeated the words of the exorcism in a loud, clear voice and clapped his hand over Dean’s mouth with what was probably a bit more firmness than was strictly necessary. Bright light filled the room and then Sam collapsed to the ground. 

Dean sobbed in his chains, a death rattle already in his throat. This was expected; it was why the angels were on hand after all, or why Sam had tolerated their involvement in the first place. But even as Castiel applied his hands to his friend’s body to keep body and soul together, his eyes strayed to Sam’s still form. “Flagstaff!” he bellowed. “It’s Sam!”


	3. I Want To Get Better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel might have expected that curing Dean would have also cured Sam. He finds that he was wrong. Can he help Dean and Sam before time runs out for all three of them?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Violence, suicidal ideation, depression.

 

Dean’s injuries – a stab wound as well as a few stray bullet holes – were easy enough to heal. Castiel brought him to his room immediately, not wishing to expose his friend’s tears to the eyes of so many unsympathetic eyes. The angels did not have much patience for Dean’s time under the influence of the Mark as a general rule and Castiel knew that they were uninterested in hearing Dean defend any of the atrocities he’d committed, demon or no. So he ensured that he got his privacy but didn’t leave him alone. He preferred to be with Sam, but Sam would be fine. He’d impressed many of the other angels with his diligence and resourcefulness; they actively liked him. Dean could not make the same claim.

Being Dean, he soon recovered control over his responses and requested his typical self-medication. Whiskey, however, Castiel would not give him. “I think sobriety is in your best interests at this point, Dean.”

The elder Winchester sighed. “You have no idea what it’s like, Cas. I was…”

“You were a monster, Dean.” There was no real reason not to be blunt. He had little fear of Dean drowning in guilt. “You slaughtered an entire bar full of people because your credit card was declined. There were no survivors.” He frowned, watching as Dean took stock of the room.

“Yeah, but I was free. Nothing bothered me, Cas. Nothing worried me. Nothing hurt me. I just… I didn’t care.” He punched the pillow. “Why couldn’t he have just let me be?”

“Because his only options were to put you down or bring you back.” Angels didn’t get tired. Their energy came from Heaven, from Grace, but suddenly he felt profoundly exhausted. “You should sleep, Dean. Your day has been taxing. I’m certain that you will feel better in the morning.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re probably right, Cas.” He looked away and began to undress, removing the bloody and sweaty clothing that carried the evidence of his shame.

As a precaution, Castiel removed anything that could be used for self-injury from the room. Then he detailed Phanuel to watch over his friend while he went to go check on Sam.

The younger Winchester lay on his bed, as still as a statue. “This is not a bedroom,” Flagstaff sniffed. “It’s a storage closet with a bed in it. And the bed is miserable.”

“It is a trial,” he acknowledged. “I can’t understand why he sleeps on it, unless he never saw it as a long-term solution. But how is he, Flagstaff? Has he woken?”

“No.” She stood up and began pacing. “Apparently he re-started the third Trial by curing his brother.” She gave a thin little smile. “The gates of Hell are still open because we prevented his death, which I suspect will upset him when he does wake up. I know he’d prefer not to be ‘helped’ with sleep in that way, but I didn’t think he would – I didn’t want –“ She turned to him, away from the figure on the bed, and got herself under control. “He needs help, Castiel.”

“I have tried to offer it since this began.” He sighed. “He doesn’t want it from me. I don’t know what to offer him. Do you think that he knew? Do you think that he expected that the cure would result in his death?” It was almost too horrible a thought to contemplate, but he had to acknowledge the possibility.

She sighed. “I’ve tried to talk to him – to get him to open up a little, in the time we’ve worked with him. And I do think that he wasn’t averse to the idea. I think he suspected. I think he hasn’t made any long-term plans.”

Cas looked at the man on the bed. “I’ve tried to talk to him about this, Flagstaff. Why won’t he understand that his life is precious?”

“Because you’re one voice in a sea of voices telling him something different, and his own voice has been added to the voices on the other side. Even you’ve felt differently in the past.” She sat beside Sam and stroked his hair briefly. “This isn’t the kind of problem that gets solved overnight. And I know that you care for him, Castiel, but even if he says ‘yes’ and agrees to some kind of a relationship with you, depression will always be part of his life.”

“Dean is alive and himself again,” the angel said. “He will help.”

Flagstaff snorted, but said nothing. Instead she returned her focus to the young man on the bed, who slept the sleep of the profoundly drugged.

Cas set up a command center in the library, getting regular status updates on Heaven and on both brothers from his subordinates. He checked on Dean once himself. He checked on Sam more or less hourly, but Sam never moved.

Dean woke up at around six in the morning of his own accord, shuffling into the library with bleary eyes and a gray bathrobe that Castiel knew had been found within the bunker. He gave the staring angels a grin that he would probably describe as “cheesy,” although what a facial expression had to do with cheese eluded Castiel, and shuffled into the kitchen toward the coffee maker. After a few minutes he returned with a couple of mugs – one for him and one for Castiel. “So,” he said, putting one down in front of the angel. “Talk to me.”

Cas considered. “The Chincoteague feral ponies probably have their origins from the European settlers who left their livestock to roam freely on the island in the seventeenth century, but I was assigned to watch over a box near Stonehenge at the time so I cannot say for certain.”

Dean blinked. “O-kay. I meant, tell me what’s been going on with you since, you know. Metatron. How’s your Grace?” Cas knew that Dean was concerned about his brother. He could see it in the elder Winchester’s eyes, in the way his hand reflexively gripped at an empty space on his chest where a brass amulet should have rested. He also knew that Dean would not ask him about Sam - not after what he’d done.

“Oh. Taken care of. All has been set aright, as it should be.” He looked away. “Metatron has been imprisoned. The veil has been repaired; Heaven-bound souls will reach their appropriate destination.”

“Good. Glad to hear it.” He cleared his throat. “I guess I’ve been out of it a bit.”

“You were a demon. That is more than a little out of it.” He tried to keep the judgment out of his voice. He knew he failed.

“Well, yeah. But even before that. The uh, the bloodlust. It was part of the Mark, I guess. You came up with a ritual to get rid of it?” He cleared his throat, unable to meet Castiel’s eyes.

“Oh. No. Your brother did.”

“Huh? Sammy?”

“Yes. There was some angelic assistance but for the most part it was entirely Sam. We just added a few touches to make sure that it would take. I believe he’s kept extensive notes on the subject, not that it’s likely that anyone will ever need such a cleansing again. Our test subject was Cain himself and he submitted himself voluntarily.” He gave Dean what he believed was a severe look.

Evidently it was not severe enough. “Why the Hell would he do that?”

“Because he did not like what he had become, Dean.” He looked Dean in the eye. “Are you telling me honestly that you regret having your humanity returned to you?”

“Maybe a little bit.” He shifted uncomfortably. “I’m still trying to process everything that happened. I’m not sure that I even understand it all, but I do know that for the first time since I was a little kid, I was free. No responsibility. Nothing. Sam wasn’t my problem anymore, you know?”

Neither Dean nor Castiel had heard the younger Winchester approach. Sam stood unsteadily on his feet but he was standing. “I’m still not,” he informed his brother softly. “I did what I stayed to do. You’ve made it perfectly clear that I’m more trouble than I’m worth and, for the record, I agree. You don’t have to worry about me anymore, Dean. You get the best of both worlds. You’re human, and you’re free.” He smiled, the corners of his mouth moving up and down, before he turned around and left.

Dean rolled his eyes. “It’s always about him, isn’t it?” he muttered into his coffee.

“Considering that he just essentially died to give you back the humanity that you threw away on a whim, Dean, yes. I think that it is.” Cas sighed. He knew that he should go after Sam, but he also needed to make Dean understand what was at work here.

“Wait, died?” He shook his head. “Are you serious, Cas?” His hand shook.

“Curing a demon was the third Trial.” He explained in as few words as possible how the outcome had been changed by Flagstaff’s intervention.

“He said he wouldn’t have done the same thing,” Dean objected. He massaged his face. “I have no idea what’s going on with that kid. What’s up, what’s down, what’s sideways –“

“As I’ve been given to understand it, that’s exactly what he said. He wouldn’t have had you forcibly possessed. You were not harmed except to prevent you from harming others. He was perfectly willing to harm himself, which is what I and apparently several other angels take exception to.” He sipped his coffee.

“I’ve done a hell of a lot to keep that kid alive!” The human slammed his hands on the table and stood.

“And yet you’ve never stopped to wonder why he has so little interest in being alive,” Flagstaff sneered from the doorway. “Charming.”

“You don’t know anything about my brother, lady.” Dean shook his head with a cocky grin. “He’s done some terrible things.”

“He’s been perfectly forthcoming on those points, thank you. I don’t need the refresher course.”

“Flagstaff has been assigned as Sam’s guardian angel,” Cas clarified quickly, looking to diffuse the situation. “He seems to be willing to talk to her.”

“And here I thought he was making time with you, Cas.” Dean smirked. “I thought you angels thought he was too dirty to go near and here you are climbing all over each other to get a piece of him.”

Flagstaff’s lip curled in disgust. Cas shook his head. “I would cheerfully, as you say, ‘make time’ with Sam, Dean, but he was uninterested and mostly rebuffed my advances.”

“Of course he did, Cas. Sam’s not into dudes. Geez, I didn’t think you were either.” He leaned back in his chair and spread himself out, perfectly comfortable.

“I’m indifferent to gender when it comes to matters of attraction. Angels are technically genderless anyway, so a relationship between us would not necessarily constitute -” Flagstaff cleared her throat noisily. “That is unimportant.”

“Huh.” Dean made a contemplative face. “Who knew? Anyway, Sam’s kind of a monk, you know?”

“Carthusian or Benedictine?”

Dean silently repeated the words to himself. “No, dude. He just… avoids sex. And let’s face it, he should. He doesn’t have the best track record, am I right?” He laughed.

“I can take care of myself Dean. Is there another reason you don’t want me to be romantically involved with your brother?”

He sighed. “Well, I mean, you did break his brain.”

Cas drew back slightly. “This is true. He says he has forgiven me.”

“I think he forgave Jake Talley for stabbing him. After he shot him six times, but still.” He waved a hand. “The kid just… I mean, he makes terrible decisions when it comes to where he puts his bits, you know? And he gets too attached. He knows better than that. This life, you don’t get to have the same person more than once or twice. He knows that but he keeps trying to sneak a girlfriend in there. _Girl_ friend,” he emphasized and sipped from his coffee. “So he really came up with the ritual to take away the Mark, huh?” “And it was his plan to capture you with a minimum amount of danger. We were pretty much allowed to show up and look good,” Flagstaff supplied with a glower. “He’s shown himself to be supremely competent. He should have more faith in himself. He could accomplish a great deal.”

“Yeah. Like letting Lucifer out of his cage,” Dean retorted. “Trust me. You don’t know him like I know him. If anyone has ever needed to be kept on a short leash, it’s Sam Freaking Winchester. Bad things happen when no one’s looking out for him.” He rubbed his face with his hands. “I should let him chill for a little while, let him have his emo freak out or whatever. Thanks for all your help, I can take it from here.”

“I will stay until I have spoken to Sam,” Cas informed him evenly.

“As will I,” Flagstaff added with a curl of her lip.

They stayed in the library until Dean declared it to be dinner time. He opened the fridge and curled his lip. “What the Hell is this? Did he seriously just ignore the fridge while I was gone? Who did he think was going to clean it, Bob the Beer Fairy?”

“Oh – he wasn’t staying here,” Flagstaff informed her foe easily. “He felt that this was ‘Dean’s place’ and sealed it up tight. Even angels could only get in once we found the ritual.”

“Oh for crying out loud. Kid’s been bitching about being homeless for thirty years and you give him a goddamn home and what does he do?” He screwed up his face. “’This place isn’t good enough,’” he mocked in a shrill, high-pitched tone. “’I’m too good to live in a bunker underground. I need a girl and a dog and a white picket fence.’” He sighed. “I’m going out to get us something to freaking eat.” He stormed out.

Cas rose. “I’m going to go check on Sam,” he hazarded, walking down the hallway to the younger brother’s room. He knocked on the door. “Sam?” he called when there was no response. “Sam? It’s Castiel.” When no one responded he opened the door.

Sam’s room was empty. The bed hadn’t been slept in since Sam woke to find them in the library, and it was made up with military precision.

He wanted to run. He wanted to race back and shout, to start a search and fly into a panic. He did none of those things. Instead he walked very slowly and informed Flagstaff. He called Sam’s phone and was unsurprised to find that it went straight to voicemail. He then called Dean and told him to only purchase dinner for one; his brother had left the bunker. He had not left a note.

Dean was predictably upset when Castiel informed him of the situation. He blamed both Cas and Flagstaff for failing to keep him at home where he belonged instead of letting him go wandering around to get himself killed or whatever. “You don’t think your words had anything to do with his decision?” Flagstaff challenged.

“Why would they?” Dean frowned.

She rolled her eyes and flew back to Heaven. She would call Cas if she had any news. The urge to smite, she admitted where Dean could not hear, was strong.

No one heard anything from Sam for three days. Dean claimed to not be concerned, but he slammed things around the bunker and spent a lot of time down at the firing range. Finally, Flagstaff reached out to Castiel: she’d heard from Sam after leaving him several messages. His phone had been off while he made his way back to one of his hideouts. He was giving Dean his space and wanted his own in return. He didn’t really want to be found. He was working a job, he said – a solo thing, he didn’t really want to talk about it. But he thanked her for all of her help and asked her to thank the rest of them, especially Cas.

Dean was angry at the snub. If he was going to force him to be human again the least he could freaking do was sit there and be with him, live with him and fight by his side. Cas pointed out that Dean had tried to kill him once and had made a habit of calling him up on the phone and pointing out his every flaw and weakness; he could understand why Sam might not want to spend much time in Dean’s company for a time. “It wasn’t me!” Dean objected. “I was a demon!”

“It was you, Dean,” Castiel retorted. “If you can hold Sam’s time without a soul against him, and the illness I caused against him, then he can certainly hold your time as a demon against you.”

“I’m worried about him, Cas. He does dumb stuff when he’s off on his own.”

“Like rescue his brother from eternity as a demon?”

Dean didn’t have an answer for that.

Time passed. Castiel returned to Heaven. Sam seemed content to continue to talk with Flagstaff once a week although she gained nothing of substance from the conversation – no hints as to his location, no real information at all. He inquired about Dean, about Cas, about Flagstaff herself, but passed off all inquiries about himself with “I’m fine.” His guardian angel was in no way content to rest with this. She had contacts at the hospital where she’d worked and they passed the word along to inform her if anyone fitting Sam’s description was brought in.

From time to time, Castiel hunted with Dean, more for old times’ sake than because either actually needed the other’s help with anything. For Castiel’s part, he missed the easy camaraderie of hunting rather than the necessary management of running Heaven. The banter might have been a little strained with just the two of them but it was better than the formality of a superior-subordinate relationship. He couldn’t quite say what Dean got out of the deal. He’d claimed that he was freer without Sam, that he was a better hunter without the hassle of having to worry about his brother. He periodically expressed relief that Sam hadn’t been around to “screw that one up for me,” or that Sam “didn’t get hit on the head to get taken hostage or anything stupid like that.”

And all of that irked Castiel. He knew Dean, though. He knew him well enough to know that Dean didn’t really mean what he was saying or at least wasn’t telling the whole story. He finally asked him about it as they sat in a bar in North Dakota following a successful strike against dark fae. “If you hated hunting with your brother so much, why did you insist so strongly that he continue doing it?”

Dean blinked. “It’s why we’re here. It’s what we were born to do.”

He sighed. “Dean, you were born to house Michael and be left a vegetable. Hunting never made Sam happy. It never gave him a sense of purpose or completion as it does for you. He was simply terrified of losing you.”

“If he was so afraid of losing me, why did he leave me?” Dean demanded in a smaller voice, looking down at his beer.

“He hasn’t chosen to discuss that. Not with me, not with Flagstaff. But I suspect that he didn’t enjoy being treated as a burden or an obligation. Being reminded of his mistakes on a constant basis probably didn’t help him either.”

“I… what can I do, Cas? How else am I supposed to keep him on task, on target? Remind him of why we’re doing this? If he had his way we’d never hunt a thing again!” He raised his hands and gestured toward the halls of the bar. “I mean, what more can I do for him? I save his life and he throws it in my face. I give him a home, when that’s all he’s ever wanted, and he won’t even unpack his bags in it.”

He sighed. He could understand where the man was coming from to some extent. “Perhaps it never felt like a home to him. Perhaps… perhaps he never intended to stay long enough to unpack, Dean. Your brother has been troubled for as long as I’ve known him. He doesn’t see saving his life as a gift.” He gave a little laugh. “We had a discussion about this, actually. But Dean, you don’t actually enjoy your brother. You don’t want him in your company when you’re not working and you don’t want him to actually enjoy himself.”

“Look, I’ve tried. I did that LARP thing with him, I got that stupid Game of Thrones DVD –“

“Did he ask for either of them? Or were they things that you yourself wanted?”

“There’s no reason he couldn’t have gotten something out of them too. I mean, Sam was reading the books.”

“And when you learned that there was someone who had an interest in your brother – romantically, I mean – your response was to forbid it.” He raised an eyebrow.

“Well, I mean, look at his track record, Cas!”

“You’re referring to Ruby. Dean, Ruby offered him the faith and perceived trust and belief that his family never did. And it’s why he was such easy prey for her. She gave him something he’d never had. And your response has been to ensure he’ll never have it again. It doesn’t have to be with me –“

“Because he walked away from you too, Cas,” Dean pointed out.

“He has. I hope I’ll have the opportunity to talk to him about that. But I’m not just talking about myself, Dean. With Amelia, too – Sam had an opportunity for the love and stability he needs, but you weren’t willing to allow him to have it. Not if he was going to keep contact with you. Why is that? Why can he not have someone in his life who actually respects him and loves him and still stay in contact with the brother he loves?”

Dean laughed a little. “You’re kidding, right? It’s not like that, Cas.”

“It’s exactly like that, Dean.” He let the matter drop. He’d said enough, he thought, to trickle through Dean’s bias and resentment.

About two months after Sam left, Crowley called Dean. “You’d best put Gigantor back on his leash if you know what’s good for him,” he snarled without preamble. “He’s making a pest of himself. It’s not making him many friends.”

Dean and Cas exchanged glances. “Is Sam… hunting?” the latter demanded.

“Feathers, I should have known your hands would be all over this fiasco. Mark my words! If I get my hands on Sam Winchester, he’ll wish he was back in the Cage with Mikey and Luci.” The connection was terminated.

Dean began calling Sam then. Sam did not return the calls. One week later, Crowley’s body was left by the front door of the Bunker, a wound from an angel’s blade penetrating from his chin through his skull. Cas and Dean stared at the corpse for a moment. Then Dean grimaced. “He said he’d stab him in the brain,” he pointed out with a shrug.

Sam missed his next two check-ins with Flagstaff. Dean didn’t even pretend not to worry. Castiel called his cell phone twice per day.

After another two weeks, a hospital in Palo Alto called Flagstaff. A man fitting Sam’s description (more or less; he’d lost even more weight) had been found unconscious on a grave in a cemetery near Stanford. He was dehydrated and not terribly clean, and had wounds that had been no better tended to than having dirty rags wrapped around them and secured with duct tape, but he seemed vaguely alive. Flagstaff asked them to put him on a hold for psychiatric observation. Then the angels flew to the hospital to be by his side.

He was still unconscious when they arrived. The attending physician bought their story of being his personal medical staff easily enough, although Castiel suspected that he had some “help” from Flagstaff with that decision. It wasn’t as though most derelicts found camping on graves had a personal medical staff. The injuries themselves weren’t major, just cuts and sprains. The fact that they weren’t healing attested to a consistent pattern of neglect, probably self-neglect, that matched the malnutrition, dehydration and inattention to personal care.

The doctors had him on an IV with fluids and nutrition and antibiotics and painkillers and who knew what else. Castiel considered removing the IV and simply evacuating Sam to the bunker and tending to his wounds himself, healing him and restoring him to full health and vibrancy, but Flagstaff’s restraining hand stopped him. Instead, he allowed the staff to see Sam admitted to a room and get him bathed. He made sure he was in the room when Sam woke, however.

Hazel eyes blinked and squinted against the harsh lights, which Cas immediately turned down. “Sam,” he greeted gently, returning to take the younger man’s hand.

Sam squeezed softly. “Cas,” he rasped. “How’ve you been?”

“I’ve missed you.” He stroked Sam’s hair gently.

Sam looked away. “How’s Dean doing?”

“He’s himself. Still hunting. He was surprised to find Crowley’s corpse on his doorstep.” Cas moistened his lips. “That was you, if I am not mistaken.”

“Yeah.” He exhaled slowly. “I think that’s the last thing. The last unfinished business, I mean.”

“What will you do now?”

Sam shrugged. “Does it matter?”

“It does to me.”

He gave a gentle little laugh. “I promise not to break the world again, Cas.”

Stricken, Castiel gripped the man’s hand harder. “Sam, that’s not why it matters to me. It matters because I don’t want to find out that you collapsed on your dead girlfriend’s grave, close to death.”

“Didn’t have anywhere else I wanted to go.”

“How about home, Sam?”

“That’s as close as I could get.” He gave half a grin that threatened to tear Cas’ grace in two.

“That isn’t true. No one has touched your room in the bunker. You can always come home, Sam.” He kissed Sam’s hand lightly and noticed the hazel eyes close for a moment. “Are you uncomfortable, Sam?”

“I’ve got a needle sticking into my hand and I’m stuck in a hospital room. Everything kind of hurts and I’m so dehydrated I think they’ve replaced my brain with a raisin. I’m a little uncomfortable.” He sighed. “I just want to go.”

Castiel knew that he wasn’t talking about the hospital. “Sam.”

The hazel eyes opened again. “Anyway.” He slowly pulled his hand away. “I’m sure you’ve got important things going on. Heaven things. You know, stuff like that. Thanks for visiting me.”

“Sam, nothing is more important than being with you right now. You have been alone for two months. Is that not enough ‘space’ for you?” He shook his head. “At any rate, Dean is on his way. It will take him a couple of days to reach us.” Sam froze. “You do not wish to see your brother?”

“I’m not exactly enthusiastic about him seeing me like this.” He used the bed’s controls to force himself into more of a sitting position.

“Perhaps you should have considered that before you neglected yourself to such an extent. Sam, you came very close to dying. You need to take care of yourself.”

He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter, Cas. I’m not about to go back and be Dean’s little whipping boy. And I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

“There was a woman –“

“Amelia?” He chuckled faintly. “Nah. I mean, she kept me together when I thought Dean was dead, and I kept her together when she thought her husband was dead. I don’t… I don’t know if we could be any good for each other now. I don’t think I could be any good for anyone anymore. I mean, Dean thinks I’m a liability and –“

“I don’t think you’re a liability.” The words spilled from his mouth before he could stop himself.

Sam fixed him with a still-fevered gaze. “Cas, you think I’m the world’s second biggest screw-up. But I’ve finally managed to do a couple of things right. Can’t we just… let it end on a good note?”

“We could.” He looked away and then seated himself on the end of Sam’s bed. “But I would prefer not to. I have had the pleasure of working with you, Sam. Always before, I’ve worked around you, near you. It’s only recently that I’ve been able to work beside you without your brother as a… as a middleman. And I must say, I’ve enjoyed it.” He grinned. “Although there have been times when I’ve felt somewhat superfluous.”

Sam blushed. “I’m just glad I didn’t get in your way.”

“But Sam, I found myself wanting more. It’s not enough for me to know that you’re a perfectly competent hunter and researcher. It’s not enough for me to know that you will get the job done. I found myself wanting to visit you and look in on you, even when it didn’t relate to the case. I knew that you weren’t taking adequate care of yourself and I wanted to… I wanted to intervene. Because I wanted to know that you were well.”

Sam glanced at the IV. “Yeah…”

“I saw that you were having nightmares, when I watched over you,” he continued. “And I wanted to stop them. So I held you. It seemed to work, and I wanted to hold you again. I liked holding you, Sam.”

“Yeah, but Cas, now you have Dean back.” There was no bitterness in his tone. He leaned forward and spoke earnestly and with passion, but without resentment. “You don’t need me.”

It took a moment for the implication to penetrate Castiel’s mind. “Sam, I am not now, nor have I ever been, romantically interested in your brother.” Sam leaned back again. “He is my friend. We share a bond, a profound bond. I care for him and I always will. But he and I are not lovers. You are the one that… arouses my interest.”

Sam’s cheeks turned bright red. Castiel thought that it was an excellent sign of his recovery that he had enough blood pressure to cause that reaction. “No,” he objected. “You’ve never…”

“Sam, I told you that you were beautiful to me. I told you that you were important to me. I told you that I wanted you to feel as beautiful as you are. We shared that moment in the bunker before we went to trap Dean. And I kissed you. What part of this indicates that I do not find you beautiful and important and attractive?” He tilted his head to the side, as though perhaps by looking at Sam a little differently he could acquire some kind of visual aid to understanding.

“That was just to keep me focused, keep me involved.” He looked away. “We talked about that, Cas.”

“Ah. Right. Ruby.” He moistened his lips. “I can promise you, Sam, that I am not like Ruby.”

“Well, you’re a guy. And an angel.”

“Did you just make a joke, Sam?”

He rolled his magnificent eyes. “I do that sometimes, Cas.”

“The thing is, Sam, when I held you that night, you seemed to enjoy it,” he continued, after letting himself smile at Sam’s sense of humor. “I mean, you relaxed into it, you gave every indication of comfort. You said the next morning that it was pleasant.”

“Yeah,” Sam whispered. “Yeah,” he said again. “But Cas, you don’t need to sacrifice yourself like that. I don’t –“

“It’s not a sacrifice, Sam. I want to be that for you. It made me happy to feel that I had done something to make your night better; to know that you woke up in better shape than you went to bed because of something I had done. Because you had enjoyed my company in some way, Sam,” he continued, uncertain where he was going with this.

“I’ve always enjoyed your company, Cas,” Sam admitted. “I have.”

“Then spend more time with me, Sam. Give me more time.”

He looked up at Cas. “For what, Cas? I’m a mess and I know it. I can’t make Dean happy. What makes you think I can make you happy either?”

“Because seeing you here – even in the hospital – is enough to make me happy, Sam. Knowing that you’re here to push back makes me happy. Just… give me time. Please.”

“You have so much on your plate, Cas. Heaven’s still got a lot going on, you’ve got Dean to look after –“

“Neither Heaven nor Dean are your problem.” He edged his way up the bed so that he was beside Sam. “Let me give you some of the happiness you’ve brought me.”

Sam sighed and looked away. “Cas…”

“Just give me time.”

Sam said nothing, but he allowed Castiel to hold him as he fell asleep.

The angels discussed spiriting Sam away before he could meet the psychiatrist for the evaluation Flagstaff had requested as a way to force him to stay without checking himself out, but ultimately decided against it. Even if Sam were persuaded to stay, to allow people back into his life, Cas was under no illusions that Sam was going to magically get better simply because he was there. Sam needed to recognize that he had problems and get help for them.

The psychiatrist also succumbed to “persuasion” and offered a preliminary diagnosis of severe depression and probable post-traumatic stress disorder. He reported that Sam was not particularly cooperative with him – not hostile, but not responsive either. None of this was news to Castiel, or to Flagstaff. He recommended that Sam stay with someone after his release, someone who could monitor his emotional state and call for help, if need be. Sam had indicated that medication was not an option.

Once the doctor left, Cas and Flagstaff returned to the patient’s room. Sam glared at them from the bed. “Really?” he groused. “A psychiatrist?”

His guardian shrugged, looking very satisfied with herself. “It was the only way to ensure that you stayed in one place and got some of the help that you needed, Sam. You’ve been moving around from place to place – this is the only actual bed you’ve slept in since you left your brother, isn’t it?”

“Flagstaff, it doesn’t matter,” he told her softly.

“It does.” She smiled at him and squeezed his hand briefly. “Now. Rest, relax and watch some baseball.”

The television flickered to life as she left the room and Sam sighed. Cas sat down beside him again. He knew from Dean that Sam had enjoyed baseball once. It made sense, as far as Cas understood the game anyway. Understanding hinged on statistical analysis, which would appeal to Sam’s analytical side. “Can you explain to me what’s happening on the screen?” he asked.

The human cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah. The pitcher’s going into his windup – it looks like he’s a knuckleballer, you don’t see a lot of those in the majors – and it’s zero outs with one man on, one strike and one ball. That means...” He continued to give the details of the game to his companion, from the definitions of “out” and “safe” to minute calculations of runs over average that made even Cas’ head spin. He didn’t say anything when Castiel rested his head on Sam’s shoulder. Eventually, though, he did throw an arm across Cas’ waist and doze off. Cas frowned. It seemed like it should have been an uncomfortable position, but any attempts to shift either of them were met with increased pressure and sounds that could only be described as “grumpy.”

Dean arrived the next night, and was not happy. “Damn it, Sam,” he growled, and Cas could tell he’d come straight to the hospital from the road without finding a place to stay first. “How many times are we going to have to come and dig you out of these scrapes, huh? You’re a grown ass man, you can’t expect me to pull your fat out of the fryer all the time!”

Sam looked away and said nothing. “Dean,” Castiel growled. “Need I remind you that it is only thanks to Sam that you are human at all? And that Crowley is dead and no longer available to trouble you?”

Sam shrank into his bed. “It’s okay, Cas. He’s right. I shouldn’t have caused so much trouble.”

“Sam, no. That is not … just no.” He shook his head. “Dean, we’ve spoken about this. I recognize that you’re upset because you are worried about Sam, but you need to rephrase how you address your brother.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “Hey – he’s my brother and I know how he needs to be spoken to.”

“I don’t believe you do. You realize that he left because of what he heard you say?”

“Can we not do this right now?” Sam asked plaintively. “Look, Dean’s right. I know it’s a hassle for him to have to come here. We can – I can just leave. Sorry you drove all this way, Dean.” He started to get out of the bed.

“Sam, no.” Cas put a hand on his shoulder. “You need to rest. That’s why you’re here.”

“You don’t think he can rest in the bunker?” Dean sat down in the chair next to Sam’s bed. “I can take care of my brother just fine, Cas.”

“I don’t need to be taken care of, Dean.” Sam shot back, eyes narrowed.

“Oh come off it, Sam. Look at yourself. You on your own? You can’t feed yourself, you can’t stay hydrated–“

“Maybe I just don’t see the point! You dragging me around and laying into me about what a pain in your ass I am isn’t going to change that.” He licked his lips. “I, um. I get that I’m not much good to you, Dean. I get that I’m a responsibility and that you hunt better when I’m not around. So just let me go.”

Dean blinked repeatedly, eyes shining. “Sammy, it’s not like that.” He sighed and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I need to take care of you, Sammy. I need to keep you safe. You know that.”

“That’s not what’s happening here. That’s not what’s happened in a long time. And it’s okay. I get that I’ve screwed up. I’ve been screwing up for a long time. But I’m not the only one, man.” Sam turned his eyes to his brother. “I’m not going back to ‘this is a dictatorship.’”

Dean was quiet for a long moment. “You coming back at all?”

“I don’t know.”

Dean exhaled slowly. “Okay.” Cas forced his jaw to stay shut. “I’m, uh, I’m going to get a room. And I’ll see you in the morning, Sammy. I think we’ve got a lot to talk about.” He left. Had someone spoken with him, coached him?

Cas stayed with Sam. “I’m impressed,” he said.

“I don’t,” Sam started. “I don’t know that it will change anything. I mean, I’m pretty screwed up. We’re pretty screwed up.”

“It’s a start.”

As it so happened, Sam didn’t return to the bunker right away. It took a few more days for him to get out of the hospital; the malnutrition and infection needed to be brought under control before the doctor would consider releasing him. Castiel and Flagstaff could have easily taken care of the physical symptoms, but they agreed that Sam needed rest and care just as much as he needed nutrients and antibiotics. The time was not unproductive. Sam might not have been enthusiastic about the therapists, but he did speak to them and not at all like a cat with a toy mouse. He more than poked at the food brought to him, although he still had trouble clearing much of his plate. He made an effort to speak to his visitors, whether they were assorted angels or his brother. Dean’s visits were tense, filled with grim silences and choked-back commentary. Still, it was an improvement over the past. Both brothers clearly cared enough to try to minimize the arguing, and in the end, they even managed a little bit of quiet laughter.

On the third day, Sam reached out and held Cas’ hand, initiating intimate contact for the first time. The angel didn’t think that was the most positive signal Sam emitted during his recovery - he showed many subtler signs and perhaps it was not healthy that his recovery be so dependent on another being - but it definitely gratified Castiel on a more personal level than the others did.

When he was released from the hospital, Sam looked at Castiel and took a deep breath. “Look, I know that you, uh, you’re busy and stuff. But you said some things. And - ” He reached into the saddlebag of his motorcycle and pulled out a second helmet. “I thought you might be willing to take a ride. Not working, just us. If you want to, that is.” He looked down, a blush settling over his cheeks.

Cas stepped in and cupped Sam’s cheek as he kissed the hunter. Once again, Sam seemed startled by the action, but he responded eagerly once he recovered. “That should be interpreted as an enthusiastic yes,” the angel informed him.

And they drove up the coast together, Castiel’s arms around Sam’s waist.


End file.
